The Unattainable: Corruption
by Slaashyish
Summary: This is the first of what will hopefully be a two part story, beginning with the capture of a Brettonian Noble by the Forces of Chaos. I'm not going to tell you how it ends obviously. It's a surprise. Currently Rated T, Sufficient Comments may change that
1. The Heir

_This is the beginning of Book one of 'The Unattainable', which I hope you all enjoy. I'm not sure about rating it, so It's T for now, I may up it to M when the later chapters turn up, depending on what people think of them._

Adjusting his grip, the proud Brettonian aimed his lance at the foe. The rabble of corrupted bodies were getting too close to the damsel. She and her archers had taken the protection at the edge of the Forest, but the trees could not protect them from the beastmen's charge. Or so he thought as he spurred his horse, and his knights, into the charge.

In the moments before the lances of the noble warriors punched deep inside the flesh of the warped creatures, tree roots sprang up from the ground, wrapping around a number of the beasts, crushing their life away. The roots retreated bellow the surface as the thundering hooves of the Warhorses brought them and their riders into contact with the rabble of undisciplined savages.

The effect was devastating. The impact of a Brettonian charge was legendary. The destructive power of their famed Lance Formation allowing them to pierce not only the individuals, but brought them easily to the heart of the regiment, be it bestial or disciplined, their lances would always find their marks.

The rabble almost broke, but one, a wolf-headed beast, which unlike the rest showed a spark of intellect, stood before the charge. As the press of mutated bodies eventually brought a halt to the Brettonian warriors, the wolf creature stood ready, clawed hands splayed out in anticipation.

The implication was unmistakable, and no Brettonian, least of all the heir of Parravon would ever refuse such a challenge.

Raising his lance he accepted; his signal also instructing that his men were not to interfere. A growl from the wolf-beast, and the beastmen cleared an area, hanging back to watch their champion fight. They moved out of the knights' reach, as any attempt to continue their combat risked interrupting the most ancient of battlefield traditions.

The Brettonian smiled in the knowledge of what was to come. None had ever bested him in single combat since he was a boy; no man or fell beast could defeat him with lance or sword.

With a deafening howl which threatened to split the knights' ears, the bestial champion leapt forward and was met with a crushing blow against it's snout. The Brettonian's lance tip broke away from the main length with a loud crack, and he had barely dropped it to the floor when the beast was up and charging again. This time it's leap was met with iron. As his foe reeled from a heavy blow to the chest, the knight drew his steel blade.

He smiled as he dismounted; patting his horse's neck in gratitude. It was much as his father had said, Allumér was no normal steed. Perhaps he was descendent from Elvish stock after all.

Readying himself, the knight met the beast's next charge with his shield, and responded with a sword strike. To his horror the blade failed to penetrate, the wolf thing's flesh refusing to yield. It remained unbroken for every blow; each strike rebounding as if from Dwarven armour, or glancing away as he might brush off an attack from a child.

As grim as the situation seemed; the warrior clenched his jaw and fought on, trading blows with his seemingly invulnerable foe. It was as the beast pulled back and howled it's intent once again, that a solution presented itself. Grinning in satisfaction, he deflected the wolf thing's claws with his visibly scarred shield; instead of futilely trying to strike the beast again however, he spun to his shield side, and planted his foot on it's thigh, jamming his other knee into it's throat. The metal plates kept his leg from taking too much damage, and the almost blade-like tip of his shin-guard made for an impromptu dagger, though it had no more effect than the sword. As the beast staggered back in surprise, he kept in close, clubbing it with shield and sword pommel. It leapt back, flipping over itself and opened it's maw wide.

As it let out another ear tearing howl, Parravon's heir lived up to his reputation as an inventive, resourceful, and above all, unbeatable fighter. His blade finally pierced the flesh of his foe, driving up into it's cranium. He didn't know whether it was already a weak point, or if the creature's power had merely been lessened by it's death. His blade, slick with near black blood, had cleaved it's skull, and now protruded the back of it's head. It collapsed lifeless.

Seeing their leader defeated in such a manner broke what little remained of the other beastmen's resolve. Their rout took them directly away from the mighty warriors, and the woman whose will commanded even the forest.

Seeing that they still moved together, the duel's victor extracted his blade, and quickly remounted with a triumphant cry; "After them. Leave none alive!"

The Old World's most powerful Cavalry were as famed for their chivalry as for their strength, and in the normal course of events, charging a defeated foe and mercilessly ending them would seem dishonourable, but the minions of Chaos' had no honour, these beasts least of all. The fleeing creatures were caught up in a thundering tide of iron-shod hooves, and plunging lance-tips. None survived.

It wasn't long before the knights realised their folly. In their rush to slay the filthy beasts, they had brought themselves too close to the enemy battle lines. Their champion looked at their next foe, expecting to see the armoured warriors of Chaos, purported to be as deadly a foe as any other in the world. What he saw in their stead both froze his heart and, to his own disgust, ignited his desire.

The swaying forms arrayed before them moved closer with such sensuous grace that he was unable to keep his body from reacting. The majority of their unearthly flesh was uncovered, showing undeniable femininity, next to which all else seemed unimportant. He tried his best to avoid looking directly at them, desperately attempting to focus on the one human in their midst, but their bodies were so strange that he couldn't draw his eyes away. So familiar, and yet, utterly alien.

Their skin was impossibly black, light fell onto their skin, and was absorbed completely. The tentacles sprouting from their heads fell about them like living, writhing hair, so pale as be almost white. The sharp contrast with their flesh was matched in what little clothing they wore. The few armoured plates which clung to their bodies were a shade of pale silver he had never thought possible, and appeared so light and supple that they could not possibly offer any amount of protection, much like the single strip of pure white cloth which fell, much to his relief, between their gracefully toned legs.

Even their exact anatomies varied from one to the next, most had almost human torsos but a few seemed to be a letch's greatest desire, their chests supporting an unfeasible, inhuman number of breasts.

Through the fog threatening to overpower his mind, he noticed that there were only a minority with two human looking arms, and though each held a wickedly curved dagger, they did not fill his mind with horror. It was the other arms, ending in a huge, vicious, white claws which disturbed him, because in spite of their obvious ferocity, he found himself believing them capable of the most sensuous, loving caress.

As the luscious creatures drew near, He dragged his head around, to see that his men were immobile in their saddles. No, not quite immobile. Their arms were jerking slightly, and the occasional grunt came from within their helmets.

He swung back to face their enemy, and saw that they were already within striking distance. A space they lost no time in closing. He could only watch in horror at the speed and manner in which his men were slain. The beautiful daemons moving their bodies against their victims sensually as they drew their blades slowly across the flesh of his warriors, bleeding them to death with hundreds of smaller wounds as they stripped them of their armour.

Finally, through a great force of will, he managed to tear his eyes away from his friends and comrades, as their lives were slowly taken from them and their souls corrupted as they died. He faced the human mistress of the daemonic creatures.

Her skin, though not black like that of her servants was dark, the dark skin of the Southlands and soft thick hair the colour of rich cream cascaded down across her shoulders. Though half her face was covered with a shimmering, disconcertingly pink, metal plate, he couldn't help but admire her beauty. His eyes roamed down her body, marvelling at it's perfection.

He found himself in a ring of open space, left by the daemons who still tormented those of his companions still living. Unaware, he dismounted and approached the figure before him, breaking one of the most important rules of combat, and removing his helm. In her right hand she held a dagger even more wicked than those carried by her servants, but he barely noticed it as her left hand reached up to caress his face, sending a shock like fire though his body. He felt such agony as he had never believed possible, and yet, he didn't want it to end.

When she took her hand away, the pain receded but still wracked through his body in spasms. She looked oddly thoughtful, then, in a voice that sounded like the silken tones of an angel, she said "Most men couldn't stand after such pleasure. You're fun." She smiled evilly, revealing her perfect white teeth, and licked her painted pink lips. "I think I'll keep you." She pressed her mouth to his, and the intensity of it jerked his head back, his spine curving in agony and he collapsed to the floor, utterly unconscious.

The Slaaneshi sorceress giggled. "Oops, I guess that was too much."

_Can you guess why I might be upping the rating yet? If not read the second word of the last line CAREFULLY, and think about all the implications that go with it._


	2. Identity Crisis

_I was hoping for a few more hits before putting this chapter up, so that more people would end up seeing it when I did, but unfortunately, it seems there isn't nuch enthusiasm for Fantasy stories. Of course, it might be the fact there was only one chapter..._

_Anyway, here it comes. I hope you're ready for this._

Consciousness returned gradually, each of his senses finding a point of focus one by one. Firstly he realised he could taste a hint of something in the air he breathed, which became stronger when he recognised it as a scent. It was not one he was familiar with, but it filled his lungs softly, and he found that he took no little pleasure from it.

When he focused, he heard the soft sound of another person's breath. The sound was very close to his right ear, and as his body filled with sensation, he realised that he was lying on his back with a soft form pressed against his right side. A slender arm draped across his torso, his own arm was wrapped around the body, a hand clasped with his, their fingers interlaced. There was an odd mixture of sensations where he guessed the woman's head was. He was certain that it was a woman, though he was unable to guess who it might be.

Her breath was hot against his chest, but a cold hardness pressed against him a little higher up. Finally he was able to open his eyes, and with one look at her cream-coloured hair, all the nightmare images of his friends' demise flooded back to him. Jerking up, he struggled to get away from the woman, but the hand that held his arm around her was incredibly strong. She held him still as she raised her head from his chest, "What's wrong?" She asked, honey voice dripping with mock concern, "Don't you like lying next to a woman?" The hand on his chest stroking in small circles, he noticed absently that her touch no longer filled him with the agonising pleasure that it had on the battlefield.

He found his voice, as much to his own surprise as hers; "You are no woman."

Though she clearly had not expected him to have recovered so quickly, it did not phase her, in fact, she looked pleased with him. "Of course I am. Take a closer look, if you don't believe me."

Her voice was hypnotic, and before he realised what he was doing, he was gazing down at her smooth skin. He cried out in shock as he realised that not only had she lain next to his unconscious body, she had removed his armour, along with all of his clothing, and her own.

Once more he struggled against her grip, and this time broke free, shrugging her off him and hurrying for the opening of her tent. Throwing it open, he rushed outside, and right into a scene from nightmares. He fell to his knees in horror. These depraved monsters had pitched camp on the battlefield. They had slept amid the carnage they had wrought, and seemed to think nothing of it.

"Looks like we do have something in common after all." The hypnotic voice of the daemon sorceress drifted to him over the death silence hanging over the battlefield. He closed his eyes, unwilling to see.

"How can you possibly sleep amongst this horror?" He demanded.

She didn't seem to hear his question, simply continuing her own conversation, as if he'd joined in. "Neither of us has a problem with modesty." She stood next to him, her presence gave him a distraction from the carnage. He opened his eyes, and immediately wished he hadn't; the difference in their heights meant that when kneeling, his eyes were just below her shoulder level, and he was given a perfect example of what she meant. Smiled at him, glancing down to his waist. "Oh, yes, keeping you was a good idea." Her manner changed in an instant; She had been wistful, then suddenly she sounded more serious; "It makes controlling the beasts easier."

"What?" His noble eloquence eluded him for a moment, as his mind attempted to find meaning in her words.

"The beasts eat the dead from battle, it's easier to sleep here than wait around and gather up all the corpses, especially if they aren't properly dead." Another switch, and she looked at him lustfully. "Can you imagine the delicious agony of existing on he brink between life and death? Knowing that you are mere hours from nothingness." She knelt as well, face to face with her hands on his shoulders, she pulled herself against him. "There can be few things more exquisite."

It dawned on the knight, that he was conversing with a madwoman. Albeit an extremely beautiful one. It was strange. She was utterly lucid, no inane mutterings like the madness he had heard of before. Her madness seemed confined to some sort of extreme desire for pain. He'd heard rumours that some Empire nobles exhibited similar strange desires, but so far had dismissed them as ridiculous.

Yet there was a woman before him undeniably aroused by the idea of her own death, as long as it was a long, lingering one.

Suddenly, she wrapped her leg around behind him and flung her arm around his neck, visibly enjoying his body's automatic reaction at the complete contact between their bodies. Before he'd realised what was happening, she'd peeled the metal plate from her face, revealing a symbol etched there in scar-tissue, vivid and fresh. A disturbing, yet horribly beautiful sight.

"My God has placed his mark on me." she explained, "Now I place mine on you!" The metal in her hand was smashed against his face, searing the skin, and blinding his left eye.

The pain was of such magnitude, that everything she had done previously seemed like nothing, and he was barely able to draw breath, much less cry out. She lay him down, crouching above his chest while she screamed in joy at the agony she could sense flowing through his mind and body as the Slaaneshi Symbol was irreversibly burned deep into his flesh.

The pain ebbed slowly, and he felt her tongue slide up his scarred face, sending a thrill of pleasure through his body. It seemed the more he tried to resist it, the more her touch affected him.

She stood once again, placing the shimmering metal back over her own mark, hiding her one physical imperfection. "Stand up, my pet."

The once proud knight felt himself unable to resist her command, and obeyed without hesitation. His life as he knew it had ended. His comrades had been slaughtered, and it was his fault. He knew that. His family would never accept him with this mark on his flesh. There was nothing left for him now. His only consolation seemed that the blindness was temporary.

As she pulled him back to her tent figure emerged from another one nearby, similar in design but even more opulent, and luxurious.

This figure was male, and he moved with the grace and confidence of a Southlands Leopard. The hair framing his chiselled face fell to the perfect length against his neck, and shimmered and unbelievable shade of pale Blonde. His body was almost fully encased in shining armour, the gold and silver seemed to blend with each other and the various shades of purple of the cloth which ornamented his armoured form. He approached them and smiled when he saw the mark.

"So quickly Liasha? You've barely had him a day, and already you've branded him. You must be confident in this one." While Liasha's voice lilted and soared like a swallow, this man's voice reverberated on several levels simultaneously. Each layer harmonizing perfectly with the others, "I expect you've picked out a name for your new pet already as well?"

"Of course."

"I already have a name!" The two Slaaneshi looked at him in surprise.

"Oh, Liasha; You chose well. This one's feisty." He smiled slowly, in a disturbingly predatory manner.

"You approve of the branding then Slaa'Khar?" The man looked at her, taking her mouth with his, kissing her passionately for several long minutes before striking her roughly across the face.

"I'll let it pass this time. As it's you, my glorious." He held her chin for a moment longer, before moving away. "So." He walked around behind her pet, examining him from every angle. "What are we going to call this delicious specimen?"

"Zaan." Slaa'Khar's head jerked up, and her was next to her before the newly renamed Zaan had seen him move.

"You think he's worthy of that name do you?" he asked, gripping her around the throat, and raising her off the ground, unbound fury filling his face. His fist tightened around her neck mercilessly.

Somehow, she managed to get out a word, "Te-test…" It was enough to make him pause. He released her abruptly, and she dropped to the ground.

"Very well." The rage drained from his face in an instant, as he bent down to scoop her up in his arms. "Is there nothing you can't make me do, my Rapturous?" Suddenly he opened his mouth, revealing that it contained only serpentine fangs, which he did not hesitate to sink into Liasha's shoulder. Closing his lips over the wound, he drank her blood hungrily, before ceasing and laying her carefully on the ground.

Turning away from her and straightening up, "Are you ready for your little test, delicious?"

It was becoming apparent that this man's particular madness was more pronounced than Liasha's; and that his words seemed to give away little of his true thoughts. "I don't know."

Slaa'Khar bared his fangs in glee, and laughed out loud. "You don't know? If you fail she dies." He declared pointing to the unconscious Liasha.

Some of the Brettonian's knightly pride remained, in spite of his depressing situation. "Why should I do anything to protect her?"

The Slaaneshi's eyes opened wider, and his head tilted to the side. "If you pass, you will be worthy of the name, and she will not be punished with a quick death. If she is alive, you belong to her. I have no desire to kill anything which brings her pleasure. Most of the time."

The former knight gave in, if only because he was starting to dislike Slaa'Khar. "What is the test?"

Slaa'Khar grinned again. "You have until the venom wears off to strike me. If you have failed to land a blow by the time my Sensuous wakes up, it will be the end for both of you."

_I may have been a bit overstating at the start, if I get three messages about the content, I'll up the rating. Any less than that, and I'll simply assume the people mentioning it are a bit reserved._


	3. Trials & Revelations

_As I'm sure you're all eager to learn how Zaan's test went, I'm putting this up sooner than I would normally have done, mostly because I'd already written it when I put chapter 2 up, which isn't how it normally happens for me._

_Also, for any of you who care, due to a point made by Rahvin Dashiva, I've changed the 'Mark of Slaanesh' branding into simply a 'Slaaneshi symbol'; the true mark being normally reserved for those whom Slanesh has directly blessed._

The threat of death is perhaps the most effective way to focus a man's mind. He had no particular desire to surrender his identity, and he wasn't too fond of the one Liasha wanted him to have, but it had significance, which meant it was worth something. If he could find out what it was, he might be able to find away to escape his captivity.

He ran toward Slaa'Khar, ignoring his lack of weapons, armour, or even decency. He swung his fist wildly, and though he was certain it was on a direct collision course, the man suddenly wasn't there anymore. A finger tapped his shoulder, and he turned round, to a fist crashing into his cheek, metal encased, and strong, stronger even than the unnatural strength Liasha had shown.

As he lay on the floor, he lashed out behind him with his leg, trying to scythe his opponent's legs out from under him, but he was rewarded with a foot slamming down, sending a shock of pain up his leg. It wasn't the pain Liasha inflicted, which was so extreme that it became almost pleasurable. This was Pain. Inflicted with malice and anger. It was pain that told you your leg was being crushed by a being who wanted nothing more than to her it snap.

Gritting his teeth, he rolled onto his side, and shot out his other foot at Slaa'Khar's knee. Somehow, it too moved just in time. The Slaaneshi Champion leaping back away from his target, a mad glee playing in his eyes. Running back in, he planted one foot firmly in the earth, and slammed the other hard into Zaan's stomach, catching him up and flinging him into the air.

As Zaan hit the ground some feet away, he wondered when he'd started thinking of himself by that name. He shook his head, and staggered to his feet again.

Slaa'Khar paused, "You are resilient, Vicious; but are you fast enough to survive?" He charged again, his mouth opening slightly, an image which suddenly reminded Zaan of the Wolf-beast he had fought. It's defences had seemed impenetrable as well, but he had managed to dispatch it. All he needed to do here, was hit the man.

He saw the Slaaneshi raise his fist to strike down, and grabbed it, pulling it across him, and spinning round, to crash his leg into the Champion's back. Both men staggered, but neither fell. The leg he'd used had been the same one almost broken by the Champion's stomp. He tried not to put too much weight on it, and couldn't move enough when Slaa'Khar rounded on him, both fury and desire burning in his eyes, and grasped his shoulders, lifting him so they were face to face. A jerking pull, and their chests were pressed together. The Warrior's arms wrapping around him in an embrace. His multi-layered voice whispering in his ear. "Looks like my Glorious was right about you." His tongue, as snake-like as his fangs, flicked out, and licked up Zaan's cheek. He chuckled. "You really are Delicious, Zaan."

Slaa'Khar placed him down, and strode over to Liasha's immobile form, and scooped her up delicately, Zaan noticing for the first time, just how much the man towered over the petite female. The warrior's face was softer when he turned back around, gazing down at the slumbering woman. "She's truly beautiful when she's asleep." He switched his appraisal to Zaan, to whom it was again clear that all through the sparring, and the preceding conversation, he had been utterly without clothing. He just thanked his good fortune that he'd been too preoccupied to realise that Liasha had been too.

He desperately tried to think about anything but her; and failed. This, predictably caused a reaction, which did not go unnoticed. Slaa'Khar looked brazenly down at Zaan's undeniable agreement, and smirked, "You think so too. That's good. A slave should appreciate his master, or mistress." He turned away, saying "Mistress is a fantastic word isn't it? Every usage praises the Prince of Desire in some way or another." He returned to his tent as he spoke, and Zaan realised that he was expected to follow.

Falling into step behind the confusing Slaaneshi, he noticed that the man walked with a distinct sway. It was different from the swing of a woman's hips, and yet, his masculinity found it equally hypnotic. He was so confused by everything that had happened in such a short length of time. Barely twelve hours before, he was the heir of Parravon, renowned for his fervour in battle, and his skill with both lance and sword. Now, it seemed abundantly clear by the brand on his face, that he was the possession of some chaos pleasure witch, and her insane snake-man lover. He was being dragged along by these events, and reasoned that his only course of action was to try and stay afloat in his sea of confusion.

Slaa'Khar was waiting outside the flap of his tent, and for a moment, Zaan stood there too, wondering what was happening; until it hit him. A slave did practically everything for his master.

He gripped the edge of the material, and stood aside to allow entry. Slaa'Khar smiled at the woman he cradled, still unconscious, in his arms; "A fast learner as well. You really did know what you were doing, my magnificent."

Zaan heard a whimper from inside, and after his mistress… No. After Liasha had been carried in, he entered, letting the material fall over the opening. The instant he entered, he was stunned by the thick scent in the air. It was similar to that in Liasha's, but harsher, and it hit his lungs like a heavy blow.

The whimpering he'd heard before entering became louder now he was within, and it came from somewhere to his right. Hardly daring to look, he turned his head slowly. His breath, already difficult, caught in his throat.

The being was human, that much was obvious, as was her gender. Each of her limbs was chained to a single thick ring embedded in the ground. These chains were held on her by means of an extensive network of leather straps criss-crossing all over her, including one over her eyes, and inside her mouth. The hair that was visible on her head was cut randomly, as though by barely aimed sword strokes. The skin which showed seemed to have suffered similar treatment, the pale raised lines of scar tissue a testament to the brutality her master inflicted.

"I found her after we raided her village three days ago. Her screams were so delightful as I violated and murdered her parents that I just had to keep her."

Slaa'Khar's voice was so calm, it was as though he had described a normal courtship, rather than a brutal scene that made Zaan want to throw up. He glanced at her again, and as she squirmed, somehow seeming to feel his gaze, asked with a dry throat, "Three days?"

He felt gloved hands slide across his chest, and the multi-tiered voice which sounded so beguiling, even when threatening murder, and made the poor girl wriggle in pleasure, spoke in his ear; "Two actually, I didn't have much time to spare for her yesterday." His voice betrayed little pride in turning a Brettonian girl into little more than a whimpering slave, whose body reacted so vividly to simply hearing her master's voice.

While trying to discretely move Slaa'Khar's hands, which had begun to rub in disturbing patterns across his chest, Zaan continued; "But, the scars?"

"Shallow cuts, She shuddered so entrancingly when all I did was slap her, I had to see what happened. Her reaction was so enjoyable I couldn't stop." He released Zaan, much to his relief, and moved to kneel next to his own slave. "Shall we take it further?" His head flicked round to Zaan, and his long forked tongue wrapped around a fang as he grinned openly. Zaan was unable to respond, having barely processed what had been done to the girl.

Slaa'Khar gripped the back of his slave-girl's head with one hand, and pulled it up, away from a relatively unscarred section of skin on the side of her neck. He forced her onto the floor with the weight of his body as he lay atop her slight frame; sinking his venomous bite into her flesh. Zaan found her scream anything but pleasant, though the sight of her body squirming had an odd appeal. A realisation which disturbed him. Maybe there was only a short path from normal carnal desire to the worship of a sexual Deity, whether one realised it's true daemonic nature or not.

Hypnotised by the spectacle, Zaan barely noticed the first sound from outside, but Slaa'Khar immediately pulled back from the girl, her blood glistening on his fangs. He rushed past Zaan, and grabbed two blades from a rack in the middle of the floor. Near the place he had so recently lain Liasha. Zaan's martial instincts kicked in and he took in the details of each weapon. The first seemed to be suited perfectly suited to a follower of the Pleasure God. It's blade was curved smoothly, while it's hilt was wrapped in Golden threads and inlayed with subtle patterns.

It was the other which drew Zaan's attention however. Unlike it's partner, there was nothing about it which suggested pleasure. Not even the blacksmith's pride in it's completion. It was nothing more than a tool for killing. No, it was more than that. This was a tool designed for slaughter.

Without a second glance at anything else in the tent, Slaa'Khar ran through the door flap, the manic fury back on his face, and murder in his eyes. Zaan followed as far as the entrance, and watched in horror and fascination as the beastmen who'd interrupted him; apparently by choosing that moment to launch an attack on this camp against those loyal to Slaa'Khar, were hit by whirlwind of destruction centred around the Slaaneshi Champion.

As he gazed out on the spectacle created by the clearly insane, but undeniably powerful warrior, a familiar tingling sensation rushed through him, as Liasha's hands wrapped around him.

"He never could stay out of a fight. His indecision will probably be his downfall in time, but here and now… well, I think you can see."

Zaan tore his eyes away from the bloodbath to question her, feeling an unstoppable thrill as his skin rubbed against hers, almost making him lose his concentration. "Indecision?"

"He was even named for two Gods."

Zaan's confusion showed on his face, and she laughed at his ignorance. "His name is in the Dark Tongue. It means 'Ecstasy in Rage' He has dedicated himself equally to Slaanesh, and the brutal Khorne."

_What d'you think, anyone see it coming? Any of you who checked it up in the Army Book, or know it by heart... well, you're a tad wierd, but I think I probably would have, so join the club. If you're intersted; apart from Zaan, Liasha, and at least one other, most of the names will probably be made out of the Dark Tongue page in the back of the Horde of Chaos army book, but Slaa'Khar's will be the only one I'll tranlate for you._

_Reviews are appreciated._


	4. Ecstasy in Slaughter

_Okay, I think I've probably left you waiting long enough. I apologise to any of you who also read my other stories, but life's been hectic recently, which is why I'm glad this chapter was mostly finished before time. Anyway, it's longer than the others, so enjoy._

Clearly dedication to two Daemon-Gods was unusual. This was a fact which Zaan had been totally unaware of. His only interest with the minions of Chaos had previously been the best way to kill them, which had generally boiled down to trampling them beneath the hooves of his horse, and impaling them on his lance and sword.

Liasha pulled him away from the spectacle of destruction being wreaked by the Warrior. "Fascinating as he is, Slaa'Khar is not your master. I am." She paused a moment. "And I do _not_ allow my slaves to ignore me." She sent a surge of agony through Zaan's body, holding his face towards her. She glanced down at his naked form again, smiling; "Now as much as I enjoy the view; I really don't feel like sharing it with the rest of the Warband. Especially not Azyrash."

Zaan, the pain now fading, looked at her curiously, his eyes asking the question his voice was still unable to utter.

"You have a lot to learn about being my slave. Don't start thinking I'm going to tell you everything about my life. You are here because of this," she stroked her fingers across his chest, stepping closer to him, and pressing her body against his. "And because Azyrash cheated me out of my favourite slave."

Zaan kept his face carefully blank this time. Though he once more failed to resist her close proximity. She felt this, and smirked. "I'm going to have to find some time to deal with that. Maybe after the celebrations are over."

"Celebrations?" Zaan blurted out before he could stop himself.

"It was quite a battle yesterday. You're not the only slave we captured." She stepped back and ran her eyes over his body once again; then, sighing, said "Unfortunately, it's time to find some clothes."

--------

Zaan, though grateful for the decency allowed by what clothing Liasha had provided, was quietly disappointed that he had been given nothing to cover his chest. He realised quickly exactly what the Sorceress had meant by 'the view'.

After Slaa'Khar had returned to his tent, his bloodlust sated, Liasha had taken Zaan away, indiscreetly mentioning that Slaa'Khar had other lusts which needed sating. They had walked the short distance to her tent quickly, and once inside, she had dressed herself in a delicate, silken robe, which she contrived to wear as seductively as possible. She had stared at him for a disconcertingly long time, with a hungry look on her face that affected him almost as quickly as her touch.

She had left him in the tent with no instructions and the smooth, soft, unusually colourful trousers, which he had quickly donned once the entrance had closed behind her.

Utterly unaware of her activities following this, Zaan simply waited for her return. As night fell, and great fires were lit around the encampment, she opened the flap of her tent. Part of Zaan's mind which seemed to have awoken recently pointed out to him that her robe was arranged differently.

"Come on. I don't want to miss anything."

Zaan stood quickly, and followed her. They made their way swiftly across the camp to the largest concentration of fires. There Liasha stood near a large pile of silken pillows, and gestured for Zaan to sit. He knelt; sitting back on his heels, leaving almost all of the downy cushions for her. She sighed. "You still don't quite get it do you?" With a gesture, she rearranged the pile so that it surrounded Zaan, and gently pushed him down, so that he was lying on his side. She then lay in front of him, as close as she could get. Her soft chuckle betrayed her pleasure at his consistent reaction.

Zaan took a moment to scan the gathered crowd. Most sat in a similar situation to himself and Liasha, opulent arrangements with at least one member of each group obviously a slave. Many of these slaves were devoid of clothing, and some displayed signs of the individual perversities of their respective masters. He found it strange though, that despite being in the possession of the followers of Chaos, very few showed obvious signs of mutation. There was at least one group present however, who stood out from the rest not because of their overt ridiculous perverseness, but because of their utter lack of it. The Warrior at the centre wore full plate armour engraved in great detail with daemonic visages, but there was nothing sensual about his appearance at all. The beings around him were clearly not slaves, but his bodyguard, each one with a similarly designed armour. Zaan resolved to try and find out more about them.

His observations were cut short by Slaa'Khar's multilayered voice sounding out from his place to their left.

"My friends, I thank you! The Gods bless us, and it is through the slaughter you wreak so gracefully that this continues to be so."

A resounding cheer rose up from the assembled chaos followers. Zaan noticed that Liasha didn't join her voice with the others, preferring to begin sampling the various foods laid out near them. Now that he noticed them, he focused on the scents wafting from them. If the smell was any indication, these were treats which fitted perfectly with the rest of the Slaaneshi atmosphere.

"We celebrate a glorious victory, with the testing of the slaves captured in the conflict!"

Another cheer rose up at Slaa'Khar's announcement. Zaan only wondered whether or not his trial today would be sufficient to guarantee exemption from this new set of tests.

"Bring out the first set!" Through a gap in the circle of watchers trudged a pair of men, approximately the same size. Seeing that each had been given a short blade, it took only a moment before Zaan realised the method with which the new slaves were to be tested.

Slaa'Khar called to the men in the ring. "You know what will ensure your survival." Unlike many of his subordinates, the warlord was standing, intently focused on the imminent combat. Waiting for it to commence.

He didn't have to wait long. Zaan was shocked at the speed with which the two men, captured in Brettonia, set upon one another. However, the way they both glanced over to the same woman before attacking gave him some indication of their reason. She looked the equal of Liasha in terms of physical beauty, but while Liasha had soft, gentle features, this woman's beauty was sharp and dangerous.

Zaan shook his head slightly, tearing his thoughts away from the two women, and focused on the combat. Though the two men looked equally strong, it was clear from the outset which of them had the upper hand. One was clearly uncomfortable with a blade he was not used to. His opponent however had clearly spent time working with various sword lengths, and held his weapon with confident ease.

Knowing the outcome before it happened, Zaan chose to watch Slaa'Khar instead. The Champion of two gods was clearly indulging his more violent side with these tests. He alone was watching with eyes for blood. The simple movements of the fighters did little to arouse the excitement of the Slaaneshi present. It was clear to Zaan from Slaa'Khar's focal point, that he too had realised who would most likely win.

The look of triumph on the Warlord's face and the gurgling noise from the ring brought Zaan's attention back to the fight, or rather, the end of it. The scene before him confirmed Zaan's assumption. The more accomplished fighter had sliced a number of cuts in his opponent, taking rather fewer in return, and had ended the fight with a well placed fist to the throat. Crushing his foe's windpipe, and rendering him unable to breath, dying a slow agonising death. It came as little surprise that it was only now that Liasha and the other true Slaaneshi took an interest. He felt her body writhing against him, presumably as she imagined the sensations he was experiencing.

Slaa'Khar strode out to the two men, taking the victors head in his hands and kissing him passionately, much to the man's obvious discomfort; following this by swiftly sliding his fangs into the man's neck.

Within seconds, the victor joined his opponent on the floor, and both were dragged off in different directions. The loser would likely be taken to the beasts. That seemed to be the way things worked. What would happen to the victor he had no idea.

He glanced down, and saw on Liasha's bare shoulder four tiny crimson marks. Clearly Slaa'Khar's bite didn't leave a very permanent scar. Zaan got the feeling that there would be many more marks if it did.

The next pair of combatants fought in a similar manner, as did the following groups. Not all the duels were as clear cut as the first however, with one leaving both fighters exhausted and unable to continue, but undeniably alive. Both these men were gifted with the envenomed bite of the warlord. He seemed to spend longer on the warriors who impressed him most.

"Bring the final pair!" Slaa'Khar was excited by this, that much was obvious. No wonder, when the two men came out, Zaan recognised them immediately. Two of his father's most trusted knights. He suddenly became acutely aware of his own position, and hoped that they would not see him.

The two knights in the ring had little chance to see him. They looked into each other's faces, and then to their respective weapons. Each one threw his blade to the floor, and turned defiantly towards Slaa'Khar. Zaan felt several emotions as he saw this. He felt pride at watching two of his countrymen showing such strength. He felt shame at his own beginning acceptance of his fate. He also felt an inexplicable anger. Until he looked at the warlord. Seeing the look on Slaa'Khar's face, it was immediately obvious where the rage emanated from.

The knights, in spite of their faith and honour paled in the face of such fury. Neglecting his weapons, the enraged warrior leapt into the ring and proceeded to beat the two men violently. He planted a fist in each man's gut, and as they bent over, he gripped his hands into their hair, twisting them face to face. He brought them together with a sickening crunch. Drawing them apart, he listened to their screams combine for a moment, before shattering their skulls against each other, and seemingly melding their heads into one.

Even after this, he did not relent. Their lives had fled their bodies, but he continued. He destroyed as many of their bones as he could find purchase on. The snapping and crunching of breaking, compacting bone filled the air and the stink of blood and bile overpowered the sweeter scents of the perfumes.

When the rage finally faded from the warrior's face, he stood in a mess of broken bodies, blood dripping from his hands. He returned to his place, and sat down, looking somewhat depressed. He swept his gaze across the assembled champions and their slaves. Few dared meet his eyes; but it was only when he spotted Zaan and Liasha that he stopped, and smiled.

He stood again, and approached the sorceress. Kneeling before her he whispered in her ear for a few moments, before his tongue flicked out against it.

She nodded, and though he had heard none of what was said, Zaan knew that this did not bode well for him.

The warlord returned once again to his position in the circle, and spoke out again. "We were robbed of our main event by their foolish notion of honour. However, there is one slave captured in the battle whose mettle has yet to be tested here!"

Zaan nodded to himself in confirmation of his fears.

"He has been branded and named by Liasha Daemontongue, and has passed one trial. Who will provide his challenge?"

The sharply beautiful woman who had owned the first two combatants stood. "I, Azyrash the Thrice Blessed will provide his challenge."

Slaa'Khar smiled knowingly. Zaan realised that it was just as the warlord had expected, which meant that he also had an expectation for Zaan's opponent. He followed the Champion's gaze, and saw a huge man, each muscle standing out distinctly beneath his skin. The black mask on his face hid everything but his dark eyes.

Slaa'Khar gestured for Liasha to stand, and after a moment to take one more treat, she did; pulling Zaan up with her. The warlord called out to confirm the combatants. "Name your slave-warriors!"

Azyrash named hers first; "My slave will be Dhar'Aqshyash!" some muttered comments were passed around as the perfectly muscled man stood behind her, subtly flexing his biceps. "What is your slave's name Liasha?" Azyrash spoke condescendingly assuming her slave's total superiority over the man she could see. This obsession with the physical seemed to be a major flaw which all the Slaaneshi seemed to share. Zaan doubted the man could remember his combat training; assuming he'd ever had any.

Liasha waited for a moment until every voice had fallen silent before saying a single syllable that seemed to cause a greater shock than Azyrash's entire cadre of slaves could have; "Zaan."

Zaan was surprised how quickly the colour drained from Azyrash's face. It amused him a little to see that it took a moment for the name to register with the mountain of muscle he was to fight. It didn't look like it was going to be a particularly fair combat.

Zaan walked to the centre of the ring, bending down to pick up one of the blades. He smiled, and rolled to the side out of the way of the charging slave. The weight of his muscles made his footsteps thunder, and their bulk made him unable to manoeuvre quickly. Their sheer power however meant that if he did connect a blow, it would likely shatter Zaan's bones. The huge slave skidded to a halt, almost slipping on the blood-slick ground, and gouging a small trench in the earth. He reached down to grab the other blade, and made to charge Zaan again; proving his other assumption correct. This Dhar'Aqshyash was not famed for his intelligence.

This time though, instead of rolling all the way out, Zaan dove to the side, planting his hands in the dirt, and drawing his legs up to his chest, then forcing them back out with enough force to send his foe's foot across behind the other leg, tripping him effectively while at the same time hopefully causing enough pain to make the leg uncomfortable to use.

The big man was less ungainly than he had seemed, and he recovered as Zaan straightened up. His next attack was as wild as the others, but using the blade focused it. Resting his hand on the flat of his own blade, Zaan used the other side to catch the swing, but instead of pushing against it, he pushed upwards, sending the blow over his head, and getting him inside the larger man's guard, what there was of it.

Reversing his grip on the handle, he brought the blade down, aiming for a shoulder blow on Dhar'Aqshyash's sword arm. His blade sank into the gap between the bones, gouging through the muscle and knocking against the ribs. Zaan's own ribs took a blow as Dhar'Aqshyash brought his arm up too late to try and defend. His bellow of pain echoing around the ring the big man knocked Zaan away with a clumsy weak blow, which still knocked the wind from his lungs.

As Zaan struggled to stand, it seemed he wasn't the only one having trouble breathing. Dhar'Aqshyash slowly pulled the blade out of his shoulder, and released the flow of blood down his chest and back. Ignoring the man's agonised whimpers, Zaan recovered his breath, and ran forwards, scooping up his foe's fallen blade as he came close, and rolling round behind, he swung the blade in a vicious ark, cutting both calf muscles. As Dhar'Aqshyash dropped to the floor, screaming in fear and pain; Zaan grabbed the material of the mask covering his head, and pulled it back as he stood. Kneeling, the huge man was at the right height for Zaan to plunge the blade down the nape of his neck and deep into his chest, rupturing at least on lung, and the heart. He didn't even bother removing the blade as his opponent fell heavily to the floor.

He stared down at the fallen slave until he felt a shadow fall across him. He turned to see Slaa'Khar gazing at him, his entire being filled with desire. Zaan barely reacted as the snakelike tongue forced it's way into his mouth, and accepted the simple blackness which followed the sharp shock of the warlord's fangs piercing his skin.

_I'm enjoying writing this story, mostly because of all the combat and random insanity I get to write. If you enjoy reading it half as much as I enjoy writing it; then you probably think it's a mediocre tale with adequate points of interest which is a fairly pleasant way to pass a bit of time, but isn't worth bothering with too much. I sincerely hope you enjoy it much more than that._


	5. Awaken To Confrontation

_Yes, it's been a ridiculously long time since I put up a chapter, and I'm sure none of you want to read excuses. So, after longer than I'd hoped. Here is the fifth chapter of my favourite story to write._

For the second time in as many days, Zaan found himself regaining consciousness in unusual surroundings; this time however, he found that he felt unbelievably relaxed. He felt as though he had been asleep for days. For all he knew he might have been.

Though conscious, his limbs seemed slow to react to his commands, gradually though, he brought his body under control once more, and forced himself off the ground. He took a proper look at his surroundings, the obvious opulence of the soft furnishings scattered across the floor seemed at odds to its current use. It seemed unlikely that even the pleasure obsessed cult he now travelled with, however unwillingly, would fill slave-quarters with such lavish bedding. Undoubtedly it served some other purpose, but he was utterly at a loss as to what it might be.

Unusual as that was, it was the men lying unconscious around him which drew his attention. Much to his relief they were not lacking decency; more to the point, nor was he. He still wore the elaborately coloured silk trousers gifted to him by Liasha. Some small part of his mind felt a certain smugness that the various men lying on the floor wore only what seemed to be their battle fatigues. The more logical part of his mind wished that he had been allowed to keep his own. The division in his thoughts worried him a little. It seemed that he was becoming accustomed to his new situation. The worst part was that this could only be, at most, the second day after his capture.

At a loss for any other course of action, he stepped over the incumbent forms around him, noticing a slight strangeness to his own movements, similar to how it felt to try and walk with the flow of a river, but still so different that the analogy was insufficient. He felt that his mind and his body were out of sync in some way, though the more he moved, the less noticeable the sensation became.

Pulling aside the loose silk that passed for the tent's door, he found the sky to be the same deep blue as he remembered from the feast; so it was little shock that he was the only one moving around out here.

It was typical of Zaan's recent streak of awful luck that it wasn't long before that changed for the worse. In the forest a little way away from where he stood, darkness shifted as the leaves of the lower plants moved suddenly. Though more practiced at armed than unarmed combat, he was not totally unprepared when the goat-headed beastman ran out at him, spear levelled for the charge. He shifted his weight to the left; leaning out of the way and gripping the shaft of the beast's weapon.

The rough wood splintered in his hand and he pulled it away sharply. Even in the dim light he could see a number of the wooden shards embedded in his skin, but he didn't seem to be bleeding. He tried to curl his hand into a fist, but the pain was too great for him too hold it for long.

Some residue of Slaa'Khar's poison must have lingered in his blood because this little distraction caused him to completely drop his guard. He clearly had some remaining protection from the Lady's blessing as well however, because the beastman failed to take full advantage of his lack of attention. The blade of the spear which, though blunted through lack of care, could easily have pierced his unarmoured body was uninvolved in the goat-headed thing's next attack. Whether it knew about him or not, it was clearly not taking chances. Rather than moving away to line up for another headlong charge, it merely swung the heavy pole around in a wide arc which abruptly collided with Zaan's side and sent him sprawling to the floor.

Ignoring the pain in his hand and side, Zaan focused his attention back on the fight and cursed himself for loosing his focus in the first place. He rolled aside as the point of the spear hurtled down towards his chest. His roll brought him into a crouched defensive posture, in which he fully expected to stay for some time.

On the other hand; it seemed that his luck was improving. The beast must have put all its strength into the downward thrust, and the soft earth had provided less resistance than Zaan's ribcage would have. It looked as though almost a fifth of the shaft had been driven down into the ground. The beastman's distraction as it tried to pull the weapon free was an opening anyone could have taken advantage of, and Zaan knew that he might not get another chance like it.

Rising from his crouch, he rushed the startled creature, rammed his shoulder into its gut, and bore it to the ground. After pushing himself up, he slammed his foot into its chest over and over until a dribble of blood trickled from its mouth; a grim smile appeared on Zaan's face as an idea entered his mind. Unsure and uncaring as to whether it could understand him, he couldn't resist taunting it; "One of the most important rules about having an advantage in a fight; don't lose it."

He reached down and grabbed its curved horns, pulling it to its hoofed feet. Dazed as it was, there was little resistance as he began to spin, pulling it round in a circle before releasing it to run head first into the spear handle. As Zaan had hoped, the wood was as brittle as the head was blunted, and it snapped in two near where it disappeared into the dirt.

While the beast lay barely conscious on the ground nearby, Zaan walked over to the broken haft and picked it up. He inspected the splintered end for a moment, the grim smile returning as he stalked closer to the beastman. For a moment he stood beside the creature, the wooden pole raised above his head in both hands, hoping that it could guess at what he was about to do.

After a moment of statue-like stillness, Zaan brought the wood down hard. It plunged deep into the ground directly beneath the beast's stomach. Blood sprayed upwards from the wound as the multiple shards pierced its flesh, splattering across Zaan. He was tempted to pull the impromptu stake out and try for a more immediately fatal blow, but in a sudden vicious flash of inspiration, he left the creature impaled onto the floor where it would either die a slow painful death, or, more likely, be consumed by its fellow beasts.

He turned away from the pitiful creature, his face devoid of emotion. It was a horrible fate, and one he could barely conceive delivering to any human, but such a chaos spawned monster deserved little better for its final hours.

Its cries as he walked away sounded pathetic and weak, like the death-screams of a creature half crushed beneath the wheels of a coach. It suddenly struck him that if he was still around when the noise brought its fellows to this place they would be unlikely to appreciate his presence. He increased his paced towards the fire at the centre of the camp. It seemed a safe assumption that the beasts had their own areas of the camp and that they were unlikely to set foot too close to where the Warlord slept.

Only as he made his way through the camp did Zaan realise just how big it actually was. It seemed that every warrior had his or her own tent; though there were larger ones which he assumed would be used for eating in, or perhaps housed the surviving members of the more brutal human elements of this Warband. Whatever their purpose, they were significantly less elegant than those he had seen previously. He doubted that the interior would be anywhere near the extravagant comfort of Liasha's; he smiled at the idea that such surroundings would likely make him feel more relaxed.

He scanned the darkness for any further attackers, but found nothing. His relief was marred by the chill he suddenly felt as the wind blew through the camp. Now that the adrenaline boost from the combat had faded, he cursed himself for his lack of foresight. There must have been something lying around earlier he could have taken to ward off the cold. By now it would likely be too late; the beasts would undoubtedly have been drawn to the bleating of the goat-thing that had attacked him. The thought of the monster's helplessness as he impaled it brought both shame at his own cruelty, and an overwhelming sense of power.

It was this moment of introspection which caused him to halt his steps; which may well have saved his life. Had he not paused, his footfalls would have continued to mask those of the pursuer he had not yet noticed. He gave thanks to the Lady of the Lake as he spun round to face the source of the hurried attempt at silence. He was utterly unsurprised to find an unfriendly face watching him; he had not however expected it to be one he recognised. Nor had he expected the blade.

"So whatever protected you from Dhar'Aqshyash has saved you from me as well?" Azyrash brandished a horrifyingly deadly looking blade, holding it between them with the steady grip of a confident warrior. The stillness of the blade was more fearsome than any amount of amateurish posturing. It suggested that, although not physically intimidating, she had complete control over her body.

Her martial prowess distracted him for a moment from her more feminine aspects. It was a testament to how attractive she actually was that his distraction only lasted as long as it did. Neither however was enough to make him ignore such an insult. "Hearing you may have been good fortune, but if you honestly believed that that over-muscled fool _ever_ had a chance of besting _me_ in combat; you are sorely mistaken."

His confidence seemed to cause her to hesitate. She tilted her head to one side, a thoughtful expression on her face; "You're very talkative aren't you? Even for a new slave. Do you not fear punishment?"

In spite of what was quickly becoming a conversation, her blade remained between them, never even twitching. Her control, which Zaan had at first thought was impressive, now seemed inhumanly perfect. He was certain that, had their positions been exchanged, his arm would have been burning from the strain of maintaining the blade's position; yet she showed no signs of discomfort what-so-ever. Not physical discomfort anyway.

"Would you prefer me to be cowering in fear? You are hardly the first person to point a sword at me." He was avoiding the question, but doubted she would focus too hard on the subject. It seemed that his tone was definitely not something she was used to.

Something about her appearance changed in that moment. Before, her eyes had held only the burning hatred of the revenge seeker; now the fires had receded and her gaze had taken on something of the appraising quality which was so often present when Liasha looked at him. He began to feel a sense of discomfort similar to what he felt when in the sorceress' presence. Anger and hatred he could deal with, but he couldn't deal with the way their eyes were always flickering down.

"Liasha is always too lenient with her pets. I can't understand why. The only reason to have slaves is to dominate them completely." It occurred to Zaan that she wasn't actually talking to him. Silence seemed to be the best option at the moment. "No matter how strong willed they may have thought they were, no slave has ever been able to resist _my_ domination for any real length of time. I assure you that, however amused Liasha and Slaa'Khar might be by your _talent_; to me it is nothing but an irritation. If you are ever truly in my power, I will show them just how little difference there is between you and all the rest."

With that, she swung her blade down, and strode away, leaving Zaan to wonder just why she had followed him in the first place. That, and what she had meant by 'truly in my power' how much better a chance could she have had? Perhaps she was less confident about facing Liasha than her tone had suggested. She hadn't seemed in very much of a hurry to strike him. Presumably there would be some kind of punishment for any Warrior who 'damaged' another's slaves, and Zaan had a feeling that anyone who damaged Liasha's would receive harsher punishment than usual.

With his attention now free to find new focus, the chill in the air once again worked its way into his mind. Shivering slightly, Zaan continued his search of the camp. It now occurred to him that he was probably not actually heading for the centre of the camp. One this size would, of course, have a central fire, but there would also be several others. Or at least, a Brettonian one would.

The light he'd been heading for was quite near now, and he began to feel some benefit of its warmth. In the darkness, the actual designs of the tents was difficult to discern; but now that the light was improving, he could see the blunt mundanity of the structures around him. He remembered the Warrior from the feast who had caught his attention. The black armoured Juggernauts who had seemed utterly out of place in the company of the Pleasure addicted Slaaneshi who clearly provided the bulk of the strength in Slaa'Khar's army.

As Zaan approached the flames around which a ring of tents was centred, he saw a large number of similarly armoured figures in a circle around eight central figures. One of the eight held a human girl in the air by her throat. Tears streamed down her face as she cried and struggled in the monster's grip. Her voice raised to a scream as he drew a brand from the fire and pressed it against her skin.

The Chaos Warrior dropped both the girl and the branding iron and raised his arms to the sky as she clutched at the scorched flesh of her stomach.

"Gods of Chaos… Hear My Prayer!"

The voice echoed in the warriors helmet, and then the other seven in the central ring repeated his words in unison, the multiple voices combining in a way which, though reminiscent of Slaa'Khar's, had none of the harmonic clarity.

With the limited knowledge Zaan had about the worshipers of chaos, he could only see one reason that they would gather around a fire and chant with a freshly branded captured human. Well, only one reason to do it if they didn't worship Slaanesh, anyway. Whatever part of Zaan may have been affected by his surroundings, he still refused to just let these daemon-lovers sacrifice an innocent girl. So, against all logic and with his chances of surviving slim at best, he broke into a run towards the circle.

_I hope you thought it was worth the wait. The next one should be up sooner; but sooner than a month and a half isn't saying much. I'll try and have it up by the end of April._


	6. Actions have Consequences

_It's been longer than I hoped, but at the same time, it's not as long as previous chapters, if you get me. Well, whatever. Anyhow, here it be. _

Zaan charged at the gap between two of the chaos warriors, knocking them out of the way in spite of their bulk and ran on; aiming straight for the lead chanter. As the logical part of him had expected, he didn't make it. Something heavy and hard collided with the back of his leg and he sprawled to the floor before being dragged back to his feet by the two warriors he'd collided with, and carried away, trapped between them, unable to block out the sounds of the chanting warriors. Though he could no longer understand their words, the haunting way they seemed to resonate left no doubts in his mind as to their meaning.

The closer the chanting came to it's inevitable conclusive crescendo, the more desperate Zaan's struggle to break free became. The flames began to swell and shimmer unnaturally and he knew that he had to get away from his captors now or be forced to witness the girl's incineration.

The two warriors were each holding onto one arm in a grip tighter than he would normally have believed possible, but even their grips could be broken if he could just find a way to weaken them first.

He tried lifting his feet from the floor, but they simply held him aloft with the same ease they had dragged him. Clearly weight was no problem for them, but that had never really been the plan. Zaan now had free use of his legs and swung them out in front of him, spreading them apart so that when his body swung back they crashed into the warrior's knees. The power of the impact sent them both to the floor, where some remnant of human instinct made them throw their hands out to stop themselves. Finally free again, Zaan ran back towards the circle.

Barging past the closest warrior, he grabbed the hilt of the black iron sword and dragged it out of it's scabbard as he ran on towards the next. The unnatural metal of the stolen blade barely managed to dent the armour of those he struck, but it was enough. As they staggered back he rushed through them, resuming his path toward their leader.

The Warrior Champion had dropped the girl and drawn his own blade. It was a horrific sight; it's edges seemed to be made from rows of jagged fangs, and it exuded an aura of hungry malice that would have given Zaan reason to pause had he been thinking clearly. In this situation, all Zaan could do was hope to get avoid getting killed for long enough to get himself and the girl away from this horrific scene.

He charged into the fight with a straight thrust, which was deflected with frightening ease by the Champion and the counter strike immediately came screaming towards him. The noise emitted by the fanged sword was nigh unbearable, and he barely managed to get his own sword in the way before the Champion's weapon bit into his neck.

He backed away as the blade shrieked out of nowhere, almost ripping through his stomach. He almost shouted for the girl to run, but even the accidental glance he took revealed the utter foolishness of his actions. Now not only was the girl going to be sacrificed, but he was in there with her, surrounded by a score or more angry Chaos warriors. One on one, he was might have had a chance against the champion, but he doubted that they would accept even if he made the challenge. He was after all just a slave here. One who had interrupted a sacrifice. He'd known all along that this was going to be the only possible outcome of his attempt to rescue her, whoever she was, but that hadn't stopped him. Even if he could go back in time and make a different choice, he knew he wouldn't.

The champion sheathed his sword, and the fading wails almost sounded disappointed. Idly Zaan wondered whether the blade had a daemon trapped inside, but doubted he would ever learn that. He also doubted that the lack of a weapon in the Champion's hand was actually a good sign.

"Bring the Intruder."

Resistance promised death; though considering his surroundings, surrender was no more likely to be enjoyable. In this situation, Zaan knew there was only one thing he could do. The warriors closed in from all directions, faster than he'd expected and he barely managed to swing the blade in his hands before he was tackled to the floor under at least three of the heavily armoured warriors. Their weight was immense, heavier than even their massive stature suggested. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, it didn't last long. He was dragged to his feet by two of them, the third retrieving his sword from where it had been thrown from Zaan's grip. The look he gave Zaan somehow managed to convey irritation and a small amount of respect in spite of the full covering provided by the grim, horned helm he wore.

The warriors dragging Zaan this time had learned from the mistake of their allies. Holding him by his wrists left almost his entire body to drag along the ground. He had no time or opportunity to find any way to break their grips before they tossed him to the floor in front of their leader. He pushed himself up off the floor, determined to meet whatever fate had in store with some dignity. Even this was taken from him when the champion kicked his arm out from beneath him.

Each time Zaan struggled to rise, the champion sent him back to the ground. Eventually, the Warrior tired of Zaan's determination and simply rested his boot on Zaan's spine, to the continued amusement of his followers.

He raised his arms and spoke in the harsh impossible sounding language which Zaan was beginning to recognise as the 'Dark Tongue' Liasha had mentioned. It meant nothing in Zaan's ears, but the cheer from the assembled warriors told him all he needed to know. His worst fears were confirmed when the champion removed his foot and lifted Zaan into the air. The agony as the bladed fingers of the gauntlet pierced the flesh of his left shoulder almost blinded Zaan to the heat of the fire at his back. He only noticed it because the trails of blood flowing across his skin, while still warm, were initially cooler than the intense heat of the roaring flames.

"Not like this!" The champion paused, curious. Usually the sacrifices had given up by the time they were up against the fire.

"I… will not... die like this!" Zaan screamed in anger and pain as he grabbed the champion's hand, and began to drag the digits out of his flesh with a strength that even surprised himself.

Then, the champion started to laugh. It wasn't a comforting sound. Even less comforting was the extra pressure he applied, forcing his fingers back into the torn flesh, deeper than before.

"Strange as it seems, he's right."

The words seemed to come from nowhere, but there could be no mistaking the speaker. "That slave does not belong to you Dhaos Ghyran." Slaa'Khar stepped out of what shadows remained and stood beside the Champion. How he had managed to breach the circle without anyone seeing him Zaan didn't know. Though he also wasn't sure that no-one had. It was possible that Slaa'Khar simply had not been stopped by the Warriors because they served him.

"Put him down." The harmony of Slaa'Khar's voice weakened, and the layers took on a discordant edge that forced its way into the centre of the listener's mind. Zaan felt himself reflexively opening his hands.

The pain in hiss shoulder decreased as the soles of his feet came to rest on the warm, ash coated dirt but it redoubled in intensity when the bladed fingers were wrenched out of his back. Only when he recovered did he notice that the Champion's thumb was still embedded in his flesh. With a twist, the champion tore his hand away, leaving Zaan to fall to the floor once more, clutching at the wound to try and staunch the flow.

He was not left there long however; Slaa'Khar took a handful of Zaan's already matted and unkempt hair and pulled him back to his feet. The Warlord spun Zaan round to face him and forced his head up so he could look the slave in the eyes.

All Zaan saw was the emotionless eyes of a serpent, which made him wonder just how much more of Slaa'Khar's body was snake-like. He wouldn't have expected there to be much more, but there was no way he was going to be able to check, unless the warlord was dead first. A pleasant thought, however unlikely it seemed at the moment.

Slaa'Khar however, saw in Zaan's eyes a familiar combination of pain, fear and despair. What really pleased him though, was the underlying hatred and defiance burning in Zaan's heart. That was what had brought a number of his slaves to properly dedicate themselves to the Dark Gods and occasionally lead to warriorhood. That was what had brought Slaa'Khar from his pathetic life in the Empire. There had been times when it was all he had to sustain him on his path. On a journey so long that all the years had blurred and became meaningless.

The thoughts passed in a instant and a moment later he was leading Zaan away from what had almost been the last mistake of his life. Of course, whether he realised whether it was actually as close run as it seemed was another matter.

They had only gone a few paces beyond the outer circle when the Champion behind them let out a bellow of rage. Zaan couldn't help turning around, expecting to see the black armoured warriors running towards him, in spite of Slaa'Khar's presence.

Instead, he saw the circles breaking up, with the Champion kicking the pyre to pieces in anger. Curiosity overcame his caution.

"Was he looking forward to killing me that much?" He scanned the area as he spoke, and realised that there was something missing, but he couldn't quite tell what.

"His own slave escaped while everyone was focussed on your little display, Chivalrous. Perhaps he will realise that sacrificing every slave he takes is a waste, but I doubt it. Like as not he will simply sacrifice twice as many the next time."

Slaa'Khar's willingness to answer seemed unusual considering the difference in status in what passed for society in this camp. So much so that Zaan couldn't resist testing it.

"You let her go didn't you?"

The time it took Slaa'Khar's hand to strike Zaan across the face was disconcertingly short. He may have been expecting the question, or perhaps his muscle structure was more serpentine than it seemed. All Zaan knew for certain was that the pain across his cheek was nothing compared to the renewed fire he felt in his shoulder. Every movement sent new spasms of near unbearable agony through him; what Slaa'Khar's blow did felt like the limb was being torn away.

The grin on his face showed just how little Slaa'Khar cared about the discomfort he was causing. He simply turned away again and continued to lead Zaan through the camp, back towards the more opulent Slaaneshi tents. It was some time before Zaan saw one he recognized, and it filled him with a mix of relief and trepidation.

Liasha's tent meant that he didn't need to walk any further, the continuation of which did nothing but agitate the wound, which was still bleeding. That he had not yet fainted from loss of blood was a close run thing; he was light headed from the lack and, ironically, it was only the pain which kept his consciousness from slipping away.

What Liasha would do in the situation however was not something he wished to dwell on. Before he knew it, she had thrown open the entrance and, having taken one look at the wound, smiled in joy and dragged her nails across her own body, drawing thin lines of blood. Zaan was fortunate enough not to be lucid enough to realise how little she was wearing. Any less blood flowing freely around his brain would have left far too little.

His eyes blurred and though he heard the words they said, very few registered. Only those which promised his future seemed important, however uncomfortable it might prove to be.

"Have your fun later, Luscious, He wouldn't survive you tonight."

_So, What think you? That I speak normally should? Well, I suppose that's only fair. Reviews are appreciated, but I won't hunt you down and break things if you don't...honest._


	7. Perfection & Torment

_It's been a long time, yet again, and once again, I'm sorry. Doubly so, as this chapter's shorter than usual. This time however, I promise to have the next one up sooner._

Expecting sleep would have been foolish, expecting the pain to end wouldn't have been much more sensible, but expecting Liasha not to take as much pleasure as she could from manipulating the wound was so ridiculous only someone so delirious with pain and blood-loss as Zaan was could possibly have entertained the thought. She only tired of her game when to continue would leave Zaan no chance at all of any kind of recovery. Even so, she showed no compassion; roughly licking the wounded area clean in preparation for what she described as a healing.

Any magical healing performed by a proficient and caring practitioner would numb the pain and speed up the replacement of the damaged flesh; leaving the patient whole and refreshed. Liasha had her own methods.

Rather than lying Zaan down, and allowing the magic to flow into his wound, she propped him up against the first solid surface she could find, sat across his lap and drove her fingers once more into the torn flesh in his shoulder. She leant back in ecstasy, drinking in the sounds of his pain, before forcing her chaotic magic directly into the abused muscle. With her free left hand, she drew the mark of her god on his chest with his own blood, before matching it upon her own. With her right hand still buried in his shoulder, pulsing waves of agonizing magic through him, she pressed her body against his blood slicked skin and forced her mouth onto his, writhing in pleasure as Zaan's tired and confused mind tried to cope with the utterly different sensations. Gradually the pain in his shoulder seemed to lessen and though he made no conscious decision to do so, his body began to respond to Liasha's movements.

-

After Slaa'Khar's appearance from the shadows, Zaan could remember very little about the previous night. Or perhaps more accurately, this morning. The sun was high, and the ground well warmed by it. In spite of the warmth, he had wrapped himself completely in one of the many sheets strewn liberally around Liasha's tent. It's silken touch and garish design seemed a deliberate distraction from his attempt to find some semblance of normality. He could at least avoid looking at it, focusing on the simple sight of the trees he knelt near. The silk was harder to ignore, but he was grateful that it was at least smooth against the still tender flesh of his shoulder. He was amazed at how little pain he felt from it, however, conceding that, whatever torments he had been subjected to, the healing had worked.

Before his subconscious could throw up any coherent memories, Zaan forced himself to focus on something else. He was less than confident in the idea that Liasha would have simply healed his wound and let him sleep. Whatever she may or may not have done, dwelling on it would not help him achieve his goal.

Letting his attention drift away from his surroundings, he repeated the knight's code of chivalry to himself; centring his mind on the unchanging nature of a knight's honour. A code his family had followed for generations. He was contemplating the showing of mercy to one's enemies when he heard movement from the undergrowth. His mind flashed to the way he had dispatched the last beastman who tried to attack him. Remembering his cold-hearted decision to leave the creature impaled, he felt utterly ashamed. True, the beast was less worthy of mercy than any other foe he could think of, but the code of chivalry did not teach the giving of mercy to those who were worthy. It was a knight's duty to treat all foes in the same way, be they a chaos worshiping fiend or a noble-blooded duelling opponent.

The pitiful image emerging from the tangle of branches looked as though she had never seen a hand extended in mercy. Her hair was long, matted and knotted; though it must once have been golden, it's shine was faded.

Even her eyes showed the signs of her enslavement. When she saw the fine silken cloth around his shoulders and the mark branded onto his face she immediately assumed that Zaan was one of the Slaaneshi who held her here. The hatred and fear she felt for them became focused on him. And he wondered just how long she'd been held here against her will. Thinking back to the girl he'd seen in Slaa'Khar's tent, broken in mind and spirit, he could only guess.

She backed away as he approached, but something about his stance seemed to surprise her. The silk fell away from his wound and she blinked in surprise, her eyes locked on to the single hole she could see and the fear drained away. She was far from comfortable, but nor was she running away.

When she heard her pursuers approaching, she immediately decided that he was, at least, the lesser of two evils. With remarkable speed she was behind him; cowering at his shoulder like a frightened child. What surprised Zaan was less that she didn't notice the four holes in his back and more that there was almost no pain when she put her hand over them.

Azyrash's appearance as the source of the pursuit also came as little surprise. Whatever deity might be manipulating his life, clearly took pleasure in pushing him closer and closer to the Slaaneshi's breaking point.

She in turn seemed to almost have been expecting to see him. After a moment of silent fuming she lost her composure. Rather than anything overtly hostile, she rolled her head right, then left. The utter lack of femininity of the action, combined with the audible cracking sounds seemed far more sinister than any other, more conventional, display of anger.

"Its you. Of course its you! Who else would be stupid enough to intervene in a slave hunt?"

If nothing else, it explained how anyone so militant and disciplined would be lax enough to let a slave escape.

"Step aside."

She strode toward the two slaves, clearly confident that her order would be heeded without hesitation. She only stopped when she was within arms reach of Zaan. Now her eyes began to blaze with naked fury. Without warning, her left hand swung out and clasped around Zaan's throat. The speed of her movements combined with the unusual style negated any reaction he might normally have made. He was left helpless, desperately trying to loosen her grip and failing completely.

"I gave you an order slave! You dare to defy me!?"

Had it been possible, he would have enjoyed nothing more than to spit in her face. However the angle she had forced his neck into meant he could barely see her face. Knowing that whatever he did would undoubtedly lead to the same result; he refused to surrender. Readying himself for the impact, he swung his left leg across to her shoulder and pushed with all the strength he had. Azyrash's fingers scraped at his neck as she lost her grip but she damaged nothing below the surface.

Though he had managed to land on his right shoulder, the impact ran through his wounds and he barely managed to suppress the pain. He was slow to stand however, much slower than Azyrash, barely rising to his knees before she was standing over him.

It seemed that through the anger, Azyrash had failed to notice that Zaan was already wounded. Had she seen the wounds, she would undoubtedly have taken advantage of it in the way she now took obvious pleasure in doing. Her foot smacked into his side, knocking him to the floor. With his face against the grass he had no chance to defend against her attacks. Unlike Liasha's extended manipulations, Azyrash just stamped on the wound repeatedly. With each blow he was convinced that the barely healed wounds would tear open again. Each time he felt a screaming pain flood through him, but not once did he feel the blood he feared would begin to flow.

On the edge of his awareness, Zaan heard a sound like thunder and the pain began to recede. It took a moment before he realised that Azyrash had stopped. He managed to drag his head off the floor just in time to hear the warrior's angered exclamation;

"You psychotic Bitch! What are you trying to do?"

The voice which responded was much softer and tinged with mischief. It was also unmistakable.

"Are you still having trouble with this, my sadistic prince? He belongs to me. So I decide how to punish him."

If anything, this drove Azyrash to even higher levels of rage.

"Punish him? You've never punished a slave yet; all you ever do is play with them!"

Zaan pulled himself to his feet, much to Liasha's evident glee.

"You just have no imagination Azyrash. It doesn't matter how many times you beat this one, his will is too strong for you to break. I'm almost embarrassed for you." She walked towards Zaan as she spoke and caressed the brand on his face before moving on to Azyrash.

The sudden jolt of magic she flashed into Zaan's head was undeniably pleasurable; utterly unlike any of the other magic she had ever used on him.

He felt compelled to watch her movements, taking in every sway of her hips and the way the bronze rings in her hair swung from side to side. The wind behind her was just strong enough to ensure that the pale pink cloak she had draped from her shoulders enfolded her body seductively closely.

Liasha took Azyrash's chin in her hand and drew it gently down to her own level. She spoke softly, but just loud enough for Zaan to hear;

"You can't resist me, you never could."

Before Azyrash had any chance to speak, Liasha had pulled her into a kiss and after a moment of resistance, Azyrash surrendered to it.

In that same instant Liasha pulled away, unclasping the cloak from around her neck and letting it fall to the ground. Her dark skin shimmered like the silk of her cloak, as the sunlight shone down on her.

Zaan tore his eyes away and saw that, again, the girl he'd taken so much to rescue had fled without a word. He had to admit that it was the sensible thing to do, but it still seemed a little unfair.

He assumed that Liasha would be preoccupied with Azyrash and wouldn't notice if he left. Though part of him wanted to stay, he pushed the thought from his mind and walked away. He was still close enough to hear Liasha moan in pleasure.

"You still belong to me where it counts. No matter how much you try to hide it."

_History thrown open for the hero concealed,_

_Perfection and Torment; Their union revealed,_

_Temptation's surrender; Posession's Demand,_

_Lust, Hate, and Fury all ride hand in hand_


	8. Posession or Compassion

_Well, here it is. As promised, sooner than the last update. You'll be glad to know I've already started writing the next one so that'll be even sooner, and definitely more action packed._

_

* * *

_Zaan forced himself to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, trying desperately to focus his mind on something other than the images that had flooded through it on seeing Liasha's bare flesh. He began once again to recite the Code of Chivalry to himself, hoping that he could lose himself in the words. It seemed that fate was toying with him however, for the moment he thought he was free of the thoughts he heard a scream of ecstasy from behind him; dragging his mind back to his unwanted imaginings of the two chaos worshipers joined in some bizarre carnal experiment.

Part of him knew that the images were not entirely unwanted, and most of him realised that whatever they were doing, they had likely done all possible experimentation years before.

He shook his head, realising belatedly that there seemed to be no-one else in the vicinity and if ever there was going to be a chance of escape, it was now.

After scanning his surroundings one last time, he set out. He could easily see Liasha's tent, and Liasha herself currently lay close enough that he would still see her if he looked back, which after only a moment's hesitation he managed to restrain himself from doing. He fixed his eyes on a point in the distance he believed would lead him home, and ran.

He lost all track of time as he ran across the fields, which still held the memories of the vicious battle. He returned to his senses as he neared where he believed he had first encountered the sorceress. Liasha had allowed him to wander away from her this morning; and it was not the first instance of her letting him out of her sight.

Insane she may be, but none who wielded the kind of magical power she held with such ease and proficiency could possibly be stupid. He slowed to a halt and looked back toward the camp. The thin trails of smoke rising up from the dying fires were some distance away now; though still close enough for the camp itself to be visible.

What would happen if he just kept running? What could they possibly do that was worse than his current situation if he failed to escape? As sure as he was that they could find something worse to do to him, he was just as sure that he was nowhere near as close to escaping as he seemed.

If he'd tried to explain his certainty in this he would have been hard pressed to do so, but something about it just felt far too easy. Even in the short time he'd been held here, he had seen enough of their possessive obsession to know that there was no way Liasha would simply let him escape. Especially because the name she'd chosen to address him by clearly meant something to these chaos worshipers.

A shudder ran down his spine as he realised one possible explanation for how well he'd been treated; comparatively speaking. Could it be possible that the sorceress actually thought of him as more than a simple slave? He was aware of the different uses that slaves could be put to, and had no doubt that in this camp, the roles were interchangeable at the drop of a hat or, perhaps more accurately, the switch of a personality.

However in spite of the day's length for which he had been… imprisoned didn't quite seem to fit the situation, but… In spite of the time, he had been required to perform only three tasks. Only one of which was directly from Liasha, and that had hardly required any effort. Her compliment of his strength of will was most likely simply an irritant for Azyrash, but it was still a compliment.

She had inflicted pain on him it was true, but that had evidently been so much more for her own enjoyment than as training or punishment for him. Pulling himself from his thoughts, he saw with horror that his body had, apparently of it's own volition begun to head back towards the chaos encampment. He stopped himself immediately, but he finally noticed a subtle urging from the recesses of his mind to keep going, to find Liasha.

Whether it was an effect of her branding him, or some separate spell was unclear, but Liasha's power was undeniable. She had bound him to her will, so that he would always return from wherever he was, whenever she wanted him. Now he understood the reason for Azyrash's anger about Liasha not punishing her slaves. The warrior was jealous of the sorceress' power. Brutality and force were the limits of her control.

Refusing to pre-empt her wishes, but knowing that he would be called, Zaan simply lay down where he stood and closed his eyes to just enjoy the feel of the sun on his skin. The subtlety of the sensation was a much welcome relief from Liasha's more enthusiastic ministrations; though he couldn't help noticing a diminished sensation on the branded half of his face, as though there were some shadow across it.

It was some time later when the urge to return became greater than his reason to stay, he had grown accustomed to the warmth of the sun, which had already begun to wane, and the earth he lay on had become less comfortable as it began to cool. It even seemed as though the number of insects crawling up him had increased over the past score or so minutes.

He was aware that too great a defiance could lead to either a loss of whatever good feeling Liasha may have towards him, or at the very least a throbbing headache, such as was already threatening to break loose.

In spite of this, he refused to hurry for her sake, and rose to his feet calmly, before setting off at a leisurely pace back to her tent. It came as little surprise that the closer he got, the less he felt compelled to return. More than once he stopped in order to see whether it would build up again, as it might if she was actively watching him. Only the first time did he actually turn and move away however, as he felt a physical resistance to his intentions when his will directly confronted hers.

By the time he pulled aside the front of her tent, expecting to see her sitting impatiently, waiting for him, the last rays of dusk were on the verge of vanishing below the horizon; the shadowy half-light seeming to drain the colour from his gaudy surroundings, making it look like a more conventional army's post-battle campsite. An image compounded by the occasional overheard grunt familiar from the kind of conventional carnality most soldiers indulged in at some point over the course of a prolonged campaign. Here, they were unsurprisingly more common and undoubtedly the source activities would be more varied and exciting, but still the familiar sound was oddly comforting.

As the heir to a Duchy, even as a youth, he had never had any reason for petulance, but in spite of the lack of practice, the manner with which he threw open Liasha's tent fitted the word perfectly, though it was somewhat nullified by Liasha's absence.

Two choices were in front of him now; he could either sit here and wait like a good little slave, or go and find her… like a good little slave.

Waiting here meant that he at least would not inadvertently almost get himself killed for yet another slave he'd never see again, and going to find her also left him the risk of interrupting some sexual liaison between Liasha and the Lady only knew who, or how many others.

On that basis, the sensible logical thing to do would be simply to wait for her to return. Which he would have done, had his pride not been offended by her calling him back for no reason. He knew without doubt that his pride had gotten him into trouble many times and might even be the root cause for his being here, but it was part of his identity, and that was the one thing they couldn't take away from him.

'_Who knows'_ interjected a, normally quiet, part of his mind, _'I might even learn something fun.'_

Grimacing at the thought, he turned away from the musky scent which had already begun to fill his lungs and closed his eyes. He allowed the unbidden desire to find Liasha grow in his mind, until he felt sure which direction to go.

It seemed unwise to allow that to happen to often, or Liasha might gain a more direct control over his mind, but once he set out, his head was clear and he felt no ill effects.

He barely noticed that his pace was a little quicker than normal.

He found her near one of the communal bonfires, where a number of the newer slaves were being branded in a more conventional way. Though he knew it to be foolish, he started past her and towards the crowd.

"As much as I'd love to watch you try; I'd prefer you to stay in one piece."

He stopped, only three paces in front of her; fully aware she'd begun to speak before she'd even seen him. He turned away from the flames and looked down at her, grateful that she had chosen to cover herself for this little _outing_. "Besides," she continued, "You know it wouldn't make a difference."

"Do you want something from me?" If he had to stay so close to the screams of pain, unable to do anything about it, he knew that he wouldn't be able to stand it for long.

The expression on Liasha's face answered his question as clearly as the even less subtle way she directed it to his crotch.

If she was disappointed by his lack of reaction, she didn't show it. Returning her attention to the brandings, she said "But we don't really have time for that, she's going to start making her little complaint as soon as they're all marked."

In theory; 'she' could have been anyone, but Zaan would have bet his left hand that he knew who it was. His thoughts were once more interrupted by Liasha, who began to pull the loose silk around his right leg. He quickly grabbed the waist and held the trousers in place.

"Either you come down or they do. I suppose it is about time I showed off the best bit of owning you." Her lascivious smile was enough to make him give in and sit beside her.

Of course, he should have known that wasn't what she had in mind. The moment he stopped moving, she crawled over him, and sat in his lap with her right arm around his shoulders. Her entire body shuddered in joy as another red-hot iron was pressed into the skin of a slave. Liasha stroked her left hand down his cheeks, first the right, then the left, where she paid special attention to her own branding mark.

Without any real warning, she pressed her mouth against his lips and forced her tongue between them. When he tried to pull away, she held him still; and though the thought of biting down occurred to him, she would more than likely enjoy it and take it as a sign that he was becoming comfortable with her Slaaneshi perversions.

As if on cue, his body betrayed him once more. Instincts dating back further even than Chaos triggered the only natural response to a willing female. Liasha somehow managed to smile with her tongue in his mouth and pressed her body closer to Zaan's in every way she could.

This, though confusing on some levels, Zaan had almost become accustomed to, but she had never kissed him like this before; her tongue seemed to be reaching further than he would have thought possible and when it began to wrap around his own tongue he knew without a doubt that something unnatural was happening. Unable to move his head enough to dislodge her, all Zaan could do was try to endure.

Another scream rang out across the circle of spectators, followed by the resonant bellow of a gong. Finally, Liasha pulled her face away from Zaan's, showing him just what her tongue had become. The flexible pink muscle had extended beyond all physical reason and there seemed to be no limit to it's reach. She licked the brand on his face with only a slight tilting of her head and withdrew it at last.

Before it vanished from sight completely, Liasha's tongue flickered into a terrifyingly distinct, decidedly phallic shape. She smiled mischievously and licked her lips with a normal looking tongue.

"Now you can't tell me you didn't enjoy that," she pulled his head so close to hers, that they were almost kissing again. "I'm almost worried you'll rip right through."

Zaan only had a moment to realise what she meant before the powerful, hypnotic voice of the Chaos Warlord rang out.

"Liasha Daemontongue! You have been challenged! The sooner you deal with it the sooner you can go back to playing with your new favourite toy."

With that reminder, Zaan realised he'd just been shown exactly why Liasha had been given her name.

* * *

_Not the most exciting chapter so far, but the next one involves a challenge, so it should be a good one. As I haven't fnished it yet though, your guess is currently about as good as mine on that score._


	9. Mistress of the Prince

_Yes, I know this one tooklonger than I promised, and I'm sorry about that, and tht it's not as long. I have at least filled one of my promises though. This one contains much more action that the last one._

Liasha whispered her instructions in Zaan's ear and after a momentary look of disbelief, he realised she was serious.

Placing one hand round her waist and the other under her knees, he lifted her from his lap and rose, a little unsteadily, to his feet. The majority of her weight was at his injured shoulder, though she was light enough that he felt no great discomfort.

Unconventional as her healing may have been, it was undeniably effective. He only wished his willpower were as effective at keeping his body under control. For the moment though, it was a simple enough matter to carry the sorceress in such a way that he avoided any particular embarrassment.

Logic told him that he would have to put her down and that, as awkward as he felt, the encompassing ring of Slaanesh worshipers would expect it as a matter of course. In fact, it might be an insult to Liasha if she were unable to illicit such a response from her slaves. Unfortunately, however pleasing the idea might be, Liasha's gentle movements meant he would never find out; no matter how hard he tried to keep her still, her body would not remain stationary.

Zaan resolved to maintain as much dignity as he could, carrying Liasha forward quickly, then stepping back from her as soon as he put her down. After glancing down his front, he noticed just how loose the silk was. He relaxed, and was a little surprised at how tense such a thing had made him.

Settling into a familiar pose, with his feet apart and his hands behind him, he watched Liasha meeting her challenger. It came as no surprise to him to see Azyrash standing next to Slaa'Khar; there was clearly a long-running animosity between the two Slaaneshi and Zaan suspected that this sort of challenge was a fairly common occurrence for the two women.

Slaa'Khar's apparent lack of enthusiasm for it seemed to support that theory. Though it was impossible to be sure; judging a person's mood became considerably more difficult in the absence of sanity.

"As always, the first to submit surrenders any prize the victor desires. You, of course, already have something in mind 'Little Prince'."

The use of the nickname brought a flash of anger to Azyrash's eyes; just as it had when Liasha had called her by it. Its meaning was completely lost on Zaan, but the smattering of laughter from the surrounding Slaaneshi showed that it was well known to them.

"I want her new toy. I am going to break her and then I will take great pleasure in breaking him beyond anything sorcery could ever achieve."

The hatred in her eyes as she turned to glare at him was almost physical and Liasha's laughter only intensified it.

"Oh, you, my little prince are incorrigible. If you're really this fond of humiliation, I must have taught you well."

Azyrash turned away from everyone's gaze for a split second, before blanking out the remark and turning to Slaa'Khar. "Just start it so I can destroy her."

The condescending smirk on the Warlord's face would be enough to rile up anyone, for Azyrash, it was just more fuel for the fire. "It started the moment Liasha arrived, zealous. You're the one who's been spending your time boasting."

Before he had finished speaking, Azyrash was rushing past him, her sword already drawn and swinging for Liasha's neck. The blow was perfect, a sword with such power and speed would cleave instantly through flesh and bone; Zaan almost believed that Azyrash was going to overpower the sorceress with the suddenness of her attack.

Liasha's completely impassive expression told him otherwise however and he was unsurprised when he heard the crash of steel on steel. Azyrash's viciously curved obsidian sword was frozen on its path to Liasha's throat by a shimmering silver dagger. The smaller blade looked like the tip of a stylised lightning bolt; a weapon like that would hurt more coming out than it did going in.

Azyrash's failure to decapitate Liasha with her first strike wasn't entirely unexpected, by the onlookers or even by Azyrash herself. She simply redoubled her efforts to brutalise Liasha. Each strike hurtling towards her in the same blur of speed before being halted by the sorceress' silver blade. Liasha hardly seemed to be moving.

Without warning she totally altered her defensive strategy, if strategy it was. Rather than stopping Azyrash's blade in it's path, she waited until her opponent drew back to give more power to her attack and curled the fingers of her left hand into a symbol while dragging the fingers of her right across her own chest. Azyrash paused uncertainly as Liasha's eyes began to close.

For the first time Zaan gained some insight into why such a formidable warrior was something of a laughing stock among the Slaaneshi. Even he, with his practically non-existent experience of magic, realised what Liasha was preparing herself for. After a moment, Azyrash came to the same conclusion everyone else had already reached. With a rage-filled scream she charged once more into a flurry of blows. This time however, she was thrown off balance after her first strike. There was nothing at all in the blade's path as it tore through the air.

Liasha's lithe form had twisted gracefully out of the way without even opening her eyes. The dagger had disappeared back to wherever in her robe it had been concealed so it was her empty hands that stroked Azyrash's face and neck as she recovered from her surprise.

It came as little surprise that the obscurely affectionate nature of the gesture rekindled the rage in her eyes. The depth of the hatred was almost terrifying. As strong as it had been before, Azyrash's fury seemed to have reached a new level, something akin to the depthless anger Slaa'Khar had shown when he unleashed his Khornate side. Zaan wondered if all the members of the warband were divided in their worship, but from what little he knew about the followers of the blood god; he doubted they would side with a sorcerer in a contest of this kind and it was clear that Liasha was by far the favourite to win.

The flurry of blows that Azyrash unleashed almost immediately changed his mind on the balance of the contest, and would have if Liasha had not been able to make evading the blade look like the simplest thing in the world.

However much he resisted acknowledging anything positive about the woman, Zaan had to admit (even if only to himself) that Liasha was good at what she did; she could even make fighting for her life seem sensual.

In contrast to Liasha's calm, smooth movements; Azyrash screamed out her fury and let her strikes fly ever more wildly. Liasha's mocking laughter escalated the deterioration of Azyrash's finesse, the simple tactic of angering one's opponent into making a mistake seemed somewhat redundant at this point, self-defence was the last thing on Azyrash's mind and even with a blade no longer than Liasha's dagger; finding an opening to strike her was so easy Zaan felt sure he could have killed Azyrash at least three times over by now.

Out of nowhere Liasha seemed to cry out in pain. He saw her fall to the floor clutching at a gash across her chest, not bothering to hold closed the shreds of clothing which remained. For several seconds she lay gasping on the floor, trying to stem the flow of blood. Something about the scene nagged at Zaan's subconscious, but the evidence of his eyes was impossible to deny. Liasha was beaten.

Azyrash had clearly come to the same conclusion; she let out a cry of jubilation before stepping over the sprawled form of her rival, and bringing the shimmering black metal down through her chest.

Completely through; The image of the sorceress swirled around the blade accompanied by a laugh of true amusement. Azyrash stood still, her sword embedded in nothing but the ground; a look of shock on her face. Her horrified expression was replaced by one of agony and anger as a lash of pure shimmering pink energy slammed into her back, leaving a flash of crimson where it struck the metal.

Liasha swung her magical whip again and again until Azyrash was left curled into a ball, whimpering. Liasha was now undeniably the victor, and Zaan wondered what sort of prize she would demand.

He should have known better, even after such a short time, than to expect a Slaaneshi to let it end there.

Liasha knelt down beside Azyrash's head, and turned it to face her. Forcing her mouth against Azyrash's, Liasha stood. Whether purely through magic, or partly Azyrash's own twisted desires, the beaten warrior rose along with her. Without breaking the contact, Liasha discarded her robe and placed one hand on each of Azyrash's breasts. After a flash of light, the silver and black armour encasing her fell away, leaving her naked but for a darkened leather body-suit.

Zaan decided that now would be a good time to leave. He had already noticed, with a mixture of surprise and satisfaction, that Liasha was having exactly the same effect on Azyrash that she had on him.

If nothing else had come from the contest, Liasha's prize meant that he now understood why Azyrash was called the Little Prince. As he turned away, Liasha ripped open the leather covering Azyrash's chest. He couldn't help turning back, and in the instant before he caught himself, he saw the brands over each of the warrior's nipples.

Liasha's brand.

_Once again I've already started the next chapter, this time however, I'm not making any promises. It'll be up when it's up._

_PS, can anyone list the spells Liasha used? There'll be a small prize for the first one who gets them all._


	10. Surrender and Defiance

_Hi....[embarrased pause] It's been a while hasn't it..... sorry about that. I know I said this one would be up sooner, like two months ago, but shit happens and it isn't. Get over it. Anyway, I at least made it a long one, with a decent fight scene (if I do say so myself) So here we go again._

Over the following days, Zaan spent the majority of his waking hours performing menial tasks at Liasha's bidding. Much to his relief, the frequency with which she inflicted pain on him had drastically reduced, now she rarely expended energy on it unless she felt he had not worked to her satisfaction. He knew that the reduction in pain vastly outweighed the fact that she rewarded him even less, but as much as he told himself he was grateful for her apparent indifference to him, parts of his mind rebelled and he found himself drifting into his imagination; filled with images of Liasha and Azyrash.

Worse than his shame about such thoughts was the realisation that in spite of everything, he felt a seed of jealousy sprouting in him. He resolved to ignore it, feeling certain that it was nothing more than an immature part of himself that longed for attention of any kind.

It was the part of him that made him look up every time he heard someone pass him by, whether he was doing something at Liasha's request or improvising combat training sessions. It surprised him how often it was simply other slaves on other errands. He had naturally assumed that the number of slaves would be greater than that of their masters, but the ratio seemed to be more extreme than he'd expected.

The few times he saw a true Slaaneshi watching him, they always seemed to be staring at his body in a manner disconcertingly similar to the way Liasha had before Azyrash's challenge. When they saw the brand on his face however, they all, without exception, turned away. Liasha must have been powerful to inspire such caution in the other chaos worshipers.

As the days passed by and Liasha continued to ignore him, Zaan began to find himself falling into something of a routine daily life in which Liasha barely featured. He should have realised that the calmness of the situation was too normal and that it would be shattered when Liasha's attention focused back onto him.

He had taken to sleeping outside her tent, as the scents within triggered unwanted, though admittedly not unpleasant, images to swim through is mind. Sitting on the hard ground he gazed at the horizon, where the setting sun painted the sky an almost terrifyingly bloody red. He was so transfixed by the haunting beauty of the fading light that he barely heard Liasha's approach. He only registered her presence when she spoke, and he turned to look up at her. Her customary lack of decency or modesty immediately made him wish he hadn't and he looked away again when he saw that she too was looking at the sunset.

"The lord of skulls will reap a bloody harvest tomorrow, but the dance of the slaughterer is praise to the Dark Prince alone."

Her words meant little to him and would have had little more meaning had he been paying attention, but even the single glance he'd taken of her had filled Zaan's mind with thoughts of nothing but how the crimson half-light played of Liasha's supple skin and made her appear bathed in virgin's blood.

She moved astride him and pulled him up by his hair, keeping his face as close to her body as she could manage without allowing him to touch her. The heady scent of her lust filled his mind, and he knew that, tired as he was from days of labour and physical training, he would be unable to resist her sorceries for long. Especially after his body and mind had been deprived of her attentions for so long. She really was very good at this. By allowing him a near-free reign, she had built up a desire inside him that, combined with her seductive beauty, had broken down his defences against her from within.

He surprised himself by leaning in to initiate the kiss the moment his lips reached hers. She pulled away from him, a smile of evil rapture spreading across her face.

"Now you truly are mine."

*

When he staggered out of the tent, finally free from her embrace and now fully reminded of why he should have kept away from the sorceress, the dawn sun was already high in the east. Liasha stepped out behind him, a beatific look on her face; unsurprising given the torments she had delighted in inflicting on him for hours on end. She caressed his spine, causing it to ark back as he juddered in pleasure; literally paralysed by her power.

"Follow me my little toy. Today you get a chance to play with the other toys and burn off some of that aggression I can sense building up." She giggled like a maiden as she slinked away toward the smouldering heaps of the night's fires still wearing nothing but her customarily open robe. The garish mix of pinks and greens somehow becoming the most elegant of styles the moment the robe had touched her skin.

Even despite Liasha keeping him awake with her manipulations all through the night, Zaan found that the exhaustion that should have been clawing at his mind was absent. As he followed her to whatever degrading entertainment he was being forced to take part in, he wondered at the energy he felt. His muscles seemed to have been infused with a freshness and vigour he'd never experienced before. He was filled with a sense of power, as though anything was possible. He ignored it in favour of pretending fatigue. He lagged behind Liasha just enough to avoid the effects that her proximity always had on him, but close enough to still be able to just catch her scent on the wind.

He tried to come up with another reason for it; _any_ other reason. He couldn't come up with a single plausible idea and part of him felt foolish for trying. What was wrong with enjoying such a little thing.

While he was counter-rationalising his own thoughts, Liasha had stopped. His first conscious awareness of this was that her scent had become more noticeable. He glanced at her for a reason, but she was surveying the camp and he followed her gaze. The Slaaneshi had mostly donned elaborate suits of full plate. Unlike the almost uniform figures that Brettonian armour gave to the knights wearing it, these suits were often moulded to the exact dimensions of their owners, revealing beyond any doubt the gender of each warrior. Most were male to Zaan's relief, though he was disturbed to find that even their muscled torsos were somehow appealing Each Warrior had one thing in common however; they were each armed with a slender curved sword sheathed at their hip and a much larger, though no less elegant great sword planted in the ground beside them or slung across their backs.

He pulled his eyes away from them and scanned the rest of the crowd that had gathered. Behind the warriors was a much larger number of barbaric northmen. Their pale skin and hair marking them clearly. Each Norscan held some form of brutal weapon in one hand, mostly swords and axes of varying size and age judging by the number of notches and dents in the blades. In their other hands most held a long handled flail. Having faced such weapons in battle, Zaan knew that as unwieldy as they appeared, and indeed were, a skilled or lucky soldier could become a dervish on the battlefield, easily capable of deterring if not killing most opponents. The minimal armour the Norscans was either a pointless display of bravado or some way of indicating status in the warband, though in a rare display of common sense, most were wearing thick helmets, many of which were adorned with a number of studs, spikes or horns. One heavily muscled and bearded man stood taller than the rest, his shoulders seeming wider and stronger than any of the others, who Zaan assumed were the members of this man's tribe. A second glance revealed that the chieftain had a third arm growing out from the left side of his chest. Zaan mentally recoiled as he began to notice the other mutations on some of the barbarians.

Behind them were the massed ranks of beastmen, though ranks was too disciplined a word to describe such shambolic creatures. It was simply a mass of the twisted beasts. Like the Norscans they held a vast array of weapons ranging from the spears of the smallest to the pairs of enormous cleavers held by the larger beasts.

Zaan's eyes were drawn back to the front of the crowd, which seemed to be the entire warband, by Slaa'Khar's voice booming out. The words he spoke were unfamiliar to Zaan and each syllable teetered on the edge of pain, but somehow their meaning was clear. Whether it was something to do with the warlord's peculiar voice, or something Liasha had done to him Zaan couldn't be sure

"We are not the only ones to have come so far south. There is a band of the Plague God's worshippers on their way to ransack and destroy the village on the edge of this forest.

They will not kill with grace! They will not take pleasure in the delicate stroke of the blade or the blood it spills! They will rot flesh from bone and twist the beauty of death into a putrescent pile of filth! I will not allow such a bounty to Slaanesh's name be stolen from right under us. We will show those plague draggers that The Dark Prince's power is far greater than their ancient cripple of a Deity!"

A roar rose up from the assembled warriors; creating a harmony that both terrified Zaan with it's unnatural perfection, and lulled him with it's beauty. The effect was spoiled when the cheers and bellows of the barbarians and the braying of the beasts joined it.

Liasha snaked her hand around Zaan's neck and pulled him down into a kiss. His surprise at the sudden action was less than half of his shock that, passionate as it was, he felt no sorcerous power or pain. She pulled away just as he was beginning to enjoy it however and, ignoring his mounting disappointment, she gestured to the Norscans. "You're going with them." Then to a sword, shield and what looked to be less than a quarter of a suit of armour. "You'll need that."

With barely another look at him she turned and walked away to where Slaa'Khar was talking to some of the most elaborately armoured Warriors. After a moment though, she called back. "And don't let anyone damage my property. I don't like having my toys broken."

At first, he assumed she meant the armour and sword, but as he'd never seen her use a sword, it dawned on him that he was the toy she meant.

Grimacing in irritation, he crossed to the pile of equipment. Examining it more closely, it was obvious that none of it belonged to the sorceress. Much to his relief, the vambraces and pauldron were unadorned and made of simple steel. In fact, he realised with a start as he slipped the fore-arm guards on, they fit so well that they had to be his own armour. He was relieved to find it hadn't been destroyed, though these at least had been slightly altered. A layer of some soft material had been used to pad the vambraces and insulate his skin from the cold metal. The shoulder guard wasn't his own however; He doubted that he'd have considered it armour if he'd seen it even two weeks before, but now he was so glad to have any protection at all, that he gratefully buckled the ridiculous number of straps that hung from it. As cold as the studs in the leather were against his skin, especially on the straps that crossed his chest, leaving them to hang loose would be foolish.

He took the sword and buckler in his hands to gauge their weights. The small wooden shield was noticeably lighter than the sword, but he'd expected that. He hadn't expected the sword to be as heavy as it was. Though no more than two thirds the length of his own sword, and only slightly wider, the blade hung heavily in his hand. A few experimental swings told him that fighting with it would be more difficult than any of the bare-hand fighting he'd ever done. Even the swords in the testing duel had been better made.

Regretting the lack of a scabbard for the blade, he kept it in hand as he tentatively approached the Norscan chieftain. He expected that Liasha had made them aware of her wishes, but when the Chieftain's rune encrusted sword was levelled at his throat, he realised she'd left him once again prove himself worthy. It was almost insulting. The garble of syllables that fell from the Chieftain's mouth was most definitely insulting, but he couldn't be entirely certain because he didn't understand a word of it. He could barely discern between each word.

He was tempted to back away and drop the sword in an attempt to avoid confrontation, but he didn't. Partly he expected that it would be interpreted as a show of weakness, but more important was that he had never backed down from a fight yet, and he would not make this chaos worshiping mutant the first time. His pride had caused him quite a lot of trouble in his life, including his capture by the chaos worshipers. It had yet to land him in a situation his skill with a blade could not redeem however, and on some level he realised that this merely increased his confidence, but no matter the opponent, he had always found a way to defeat them.

He knocked the rune-blade away from his throat in what he hoped was a contemptuous manner. Whether it was the action or the manner was unclear, but something angered the chieftain, and he bellowed a war cry and without further pause began to attack. His first attack was unexpectedly innovative. He didn't enter any recognisable form of a ready stance, his blade simply shot up from where it was straight towards Zaan's throat. He barely managed to avoid decapitation by twisting hurriedly to the side. Though Zaan was able to deflect the next few strikes, it didn't take more than that for the chieftain to again defy orthodox sword fighting techniques. Rather than simply swinging the blade again as any other swordsman would, he actually reached out and gripped Zaan's guarding blade in his bare hand. The shock Zaan felt at his opponent doing something so stupid meant that he almost missed the sword strike it was meant to distract him from. His reflexes came to his rescue however, and he relinquished his sword in favour of putting distance between the himself and the chieftain. He already realised that by following a conventional combat strategy, he was simply allowing his opponent to dictate the flow of the fight. The obvious solution therefore was to fight in as unorthodox a manner as he could.

Disregarding all apparent defensive considerations, he planted his foot and leapt back at the larger Norscan, swinging his left arm hard at the chieftain's head, the shield strapped to it lending his blow a greater weight. The big man grinned as he countered the attack by dropping Zaan's sword and taking the punch on his right arm. His own sword was out of use for a while, but he compensated for this by wrapping the thick fingers of his dominant left hand around Zaan's throat, making each breath a fight in itself. The smaller arm from half way up his chest began to crash it's fist into Zaan's ribs. He thanked the Lady that the smaller arm was less powerful than the others. If the chieftain had been punching him with his full strength limbs, Zaan didn't doubt that his ribs would be cracking with every blow. Even so, he wasn't certain that he would be capable of fighting in any battle even if he survived this fight. Taking the unconventional strategy to the next level he grabbed both of the Norscan's dominant arms, and trusting that the man would be strong enough to lift him, he raised both his legs and planted his feet on the man's broad chest. He was able to push away from the chieftain with enough force to take his throat to the limit of his opponent's reach. In this position he was just able to draw his right leg up enough to slam it into the Chieftain's face. There was a sickeningly satisfying crunch as he saw the horned helm jerk backwards, and the grip around his neck loosened. He let himself drop to the floor, but made sure his feet were under him when he did so.

He was debating whether to make a move for his weapon, when he heard an unusual sound cut through the babble of background muttering from the assembled Marauders. The sounds itself was not an unusual example, it was actually the only one whose meaning Zaan could discern. What was unusual was that Zaan would never have expected to hear someone laughing off a kick to the face.

"Southern Boy fights like Wildman. Southboy fights better than most of you!"

The Chieftain spoke in Reikspiel now, he was addressing his men, but wanted Zaan to understand it as well. In spite of how long the fight had seemed to Zaan, he realised it had lasted barely fifteen seconds. It looked like he'd manage to pass another test however, though if it had been a real death-match he doubted the outcome would have been quite so good.

He winced as pain shot through his side. 'Good' did not describe his situation by any measure. Except that he was alive, and even that was beginning to seem scant consolation. He ignored the various looks of disgust, hatred and what seemed like respect that he was getting from the Marauders, and collected his sword from where it lay, already heavily notched, in the dust.

From some way off a horn sounded. It's haunting note floating across the assembled masses, somehow seeming as loud as if it had been blown much nearer. Gradually other horns joined it, each different note adding to the strange harmony and enhancing the effect. They suddenly cut out with an eerie precision and every being present moved towards the source of the initial note, presumably Slaa'Khar's signaller, and the direction of the future battle.

Resentfully Zaan fell into step with the Marauders, any other course of action would almost certainly result in death, or at least some form of punishment from Liasha (Which possibility worried Zaan most he wasn't certain). At least in battle he had some measure of control over his own destiny.

_Well, there it was. Frankly I don't mind if you review it or not, I deserve for it to be ignored. I can't blame anything but my own apathy with any conviction. In my personal dictionary; exam revision is listed as 1) something that mostly happens to other people, 2) taking a day or so to re-learn a module. So I'm sorry my lazy arse couldn't be bothered to even finish this chapter in less than 2 months, but there we go. If anyone's still interested in the freaky shit that spews from my twisted mind I'll be surprised._


	11. The Conflict Begins

_I haven't been updating nearly as much as I'd have liked, so most of my readers have probably gotten bored and wandered off to find something more reliable. If you're still here, I thank you. In a show of my appreciation, this chapter is not only longer than I usually do, but there's a pile of action in it._

During the march toward battle, Zaan was relieved to find the ache in his ribs lessening, but he still felt wretched. He was marching into battle alongside the forces of chaos. If someone had told him, even a month ago, that he was going to be fighting on this side of a battle, he would have challenged them to a duel for insulting his honour. The only consolation was that regardless of who he was fighting alongside, his enemies were chaos worshipers as well.

Besides which, a battlefield is a confusing place, how much different could the other group of chaos worshipers look? It didn't matter anyway. Whatever they might look like, any cultist that came within reach once ranks inevitably broke down into a melee would soon regret it.

Zaan had no idea how far they would be marching; he wasn't even sure of the direction. He was broken from his dark mood by a horrendous stench. He'd never experienced anything like it. As much as Liasha's subtle scent both aroused his desire and subdued his inhibitions, this revolting odour felt almost like a fist plunging down into his lungs and expanding. Each breath felt like it would be his last, the agony of feeling his lungs ravaged by an unending fire only lessened when he cut a strip of material from the leg of his trousers and wrapped it tightly over his nose and mouth.

Believing their enemy was near, he shifted his buckler into a fighting grip, and loosened up his sword arm. A bark of laughter from nearby was followed by some of the Norsemen's guttural language. He glanced around to find the source, and found that most of the Marauders nearby were at least smirking. He also noticed that none of them were showing any signs of combat readiness. Zaan had assumed that he had simply not noticed the first hints of the stink, but was is possible that these were the first signs? His definition of 'possible' had become much more expansive over the past few days, but even now that seemed unlikely, and yet they were clearly not as close to their foe as he'd thought.

The Norsemen were taking the painfully horrific air as stoically as seemed possible, barely showing signs of pain or disgust. Whether they had experienced it's like before or not, Zaan found it likely that they had grown up in a society that counted personal hygiene below decorative masonry. He was a child of the Brettonian courts however, and the smell of the Marauders themselves had affronted his sensibilities on their first meeting.

Zaan had three layers of silk across his mouth before he caught even the first glimpse of the other Chaos army. Cresting a hill, they saw the horde of enemies below them. The first image in Zaan's mind was of the tales he'd heard about the undead hordes that were occasionally reported as attacking certain provinces in the Empire. The beings massed together down by the forest moved in a similar shambling manner to the stories. After a moments observation however, he revised his description. The crowd of fleshy shapes was moving less than he'd originally thought. It was more that, even stationary, each one gave the impression of oozing.

The Slaaneshi forces had halted their march. Each unit forming up out of the respective groups. The Warriors in one place with Slaa'Khar at their head. The Marauders had formed up around their chieftain, though their ranks were less organized. The beasts also seemed to have a leader. They had split into two groups, a mix of large and small beastmen in each, and both lead by an armoured creature with a huge weapon. One held a massive axe above his head in one hand as he lead his beasts in a roar of anticipation. The other seemed to have simply taken an axe to the largest tree it could find and roughly removed most of the smaller branches from it's length.

Other forces had either been sent out ahead, or had joined them from elsewhere. Liasha had mounted a silver and purple chariot pulled by a pair of golden horses; with shocking pink manes.

Another group that Zaan had never seen before was a unit of cavalry, the sight of which made him wish he could return home and fight side by side with his father and brother. As familiar as the idea was to him, their appearance was something utterly bemusing. Each of the chargers had different coloured hair, which was not in itself unusual. However, never before had Zaan seen a horse with hair as blue as the ocean or red like blood. Only the centre horse could pass for a real horse anywhere else, but even this was strange. It was a truly white horse. Even the most traditional, pedantic stable-master would feel foolish calling it grey. Not that such a person would live for long after seeing it judging from the rider. His silver armour shone almost as pale as his steed, and the golden decoration matched the trappings on his horse. In spite of his clean, pure image he radiated a sense of dangerous focus; even at this distance Zaan could feel it. As if feeling his gaze, the knight's attention locked onto Zaan and he started as though struck. He almost looked away, but he saw on the edges of his vision that the marauders were edging away from him. They were obviously afraid of the knight, and Zaan wanted to separate himself from them in as many ways as he could, so he held the knights gaze for as long as he could, barely even letting himself blink until the urge to look away grew to strong to resist.

The Slaaneshi were lined up on the crest of the hill and while the Nurglite army drew closer, they held their ground. Considering Slaa'Khar's obvious violent nature, Zaan was somewhat surprised to find that he was being so tactically sensible. He didn't doubt that the Beastmen would be the first to charge, closely followed by the Norscan marauders. Even if they were given no order to advance, the men around him were obviously itching for violence, and from what he'd seen of the beasts, they had even less concern for their own safety.

He was proved correct barely a minute after his concerns first arose. He had, of course, considered that Slaa'Khar would use their impetuous charge as the signal of the start of battle, which is what Zaan would do in his position. Allow the expendable troops to charge, then assess the results of it before committing the more powerful and valuable units. It would be more 'beautiful' that way he thought, with a private smirk of irony.

The bleating roar of the Beastmen's charge down the hill was met with a cheer of approval from the marauders around him, and it wasn't long before they too began to make their heavy footed way down the hill; Zaan dragged along with them.

The footing on this side of the hill was more treacherous than he'd expected. Marching up it, the soil had been firm and strong; now, as they ran down towards their enemies, the ground was becoming damper. It felt more and more like the blood soaked field after a battle as they drew closer to the Nurglites, but something told him that it wasn't the blood of the fallen causing the degradation. It was going to make the battle more difficult, and it would only get worse as blood was actually spilled. He took a single glance at the enemy unit he had been dragged towards, and with a shock saw that they were all heavily armoured; and as rusted and ancient as the armour looked, he didn't doubt that it was any less effective than his own had been. The largest of the Nurglite Warriors was so obese it was almost unbelievable that he could have found armour that fitted him.

The time for contemplation was up and, as so often happened before combat, Zaan found that he was curious about the most unusual things, philosophical and practical questions that he would likely never have answers for had to be forced from his mind as he focused his mind, and loosened his muscles.

With a roar to match the Norscans he began to attack the enemy before him. Still somewhat unaccustomed to the heavy short-sword, his first swing at a rust-coated warrior was relatively weak, and was quickly deflected by the warrior's filthy mace, which swung back round and would have caved in Zaan's head had not a Norscan been hurled in the way by an overenthusiastic Nurglite. With the warrior off balance from the impact Zaan stepped in to take advantage. He rammed his blade in under the warrior's breastplate, and immediately regretted doing so. Not only did it fail to kill or even apparently injure the Nurglite, but what flowed from the wound was as far from blood as any fluid Zaan had ever witnessed. The only word to describe it was pus, and it dripped down his sword slowly, corroding the metal before it even touched it. Not wanting to find out what would happen if it touched his skin, Zaan pulled his hands away fast, abandoning the blade; as much in the hope that it would at least hinder his opponent as in reluctance to keep hold of it.

The Marauder whose death had saved Zaan's life had, much to Zaan's relief, kept hold of his weapon, so while he ducked under the Warrior's return swing, Zaan reached down to pick it up. It was barely any better quality than the sword now rotting in the Nurglite's gut, but it at least seemed longer.

He swung it at the Nurglite's weapon arm, but his target was pulled back in time and the blade only caught the haft of the mace. The impact damaged both weapons, but the mace would be almost unaffected by it, unlike Zaan's blade, which now boasted a dent the size of his fist in one edge. Zaan had one advantage over his opponent. As fast as the warrior seemed, in spite of his bulk and the creaking rusted armour he wore, Zaan's reactions were boosted by the fear flooding him with adrenaline. He moved to the Nurglite's off-hand side reversed his grip on the blade.

Before the Warrior could turn to face him, he rammed the point of his sword into the back of the larger man's knee joint. If there had been any response to the attack outside of the sound of the impact, Zaan might not have noticed the grunt accompanying an attack from a different quarter.

Unaware of the weapon type, Zaan evaded as much as possible. Diving to the muddy ground behind him. Liasha would probably be upset about the trousers, but what mattered more was the size of the blade that had slammed into the floor at Zaan's feet. Fortunately, it looked as though the force of impact had driven it too deep into the ground, and it's owner was having trouble getting it out again. The new warrior fought without a helmet, and Zaan wished that was not the case. Not only was he covered in weeping sores and drool, but even on the floor, Zaan could smell his body odour and halitosis. The stench permeated the three layers of silk across his face as though they weren't there, and it intensified with each breath the horror took.

The tide of combat had dragged Zaan's original opponent away, and he fervently hoped to never see him again, except on a corpse pile. He spared little time on curses, though; preferring to think of a way to kill the monster in front of him instead.

It was easier said than done, he assumed that this monstrosity would be at least as resilient as the first, and the fact it had swung it's sword with enough force to get it stuck so firmly into the ground meant it had a strength to match. It did seem preoccupied with it's weapon though. Just as Zaan was entertaining thoughts of avoiding the fight, a second marauder was thrown towards him and his opponent, this time he was less fortunate.

The heavily muscled Norscan collided with Zaan, knocking him do the ground and dazing him. Unaware, he struggled to his feet just as the huge Warrior finally managed to retrieve his sword with a massive heave. On a whim, Zaan picked up both his own dropped sword, and the axe that had been thrown his way with the Norscan's body. He didn't notice the blood that had covered him from the corpse, nor did he pay attention to the slickness of the axe haft. In his semi-conscious state his body was resorting to instinct, both natural instinct and that born of relentless combat practice.

There was a threat in front of him, and that could only result in one thing. He charged the Nurglite, weaving slightly as his vision swam in and out. His erratic path and soundless charge made the nurgle Warrior hesitate long enough that Zaan's attack landed first. He dashed inside the great sword's sweep and jumped. He swung both of his weapons into the enemy's head from either side, slicing the top of his cranium off with a brutal crack. The misjudged swings had not met cleanly, so it was only the momentum of the blows that broke the bone still holding together. The reek of the rotten brain matter was even worse than the already horrendous stench of the massive Nurglite.

Now splattered from head to toe in the viscera of friend and foe and barely able to discern the difference, Zaan staggered into the maelstrom of combat, hewing left and right, where his blows broke the skin and parted flesh, a manic grin flashed across his face. Where the blades rebounded off enchanted steel, he would round on the enemy and unleash a barrage of strikes until his primal mind was satisfied that they no longer posed any threat before resuming his rampage.

How many he struck and how many of those he actually harmed he hardly knew and cared less. Left untempered he would have ignored his own safety until one of the monstrous beings he fought with ended his existence. His unlikely salvation came in the form of thundering hooves and a crash of silvery steel through the melee in front of him.

The familiar sound and the smell of the horses, in spite of the unusual tint rushed his consciousness back to the surface and after a moment of whirling emotions, the horror at his own mental state surfaced as he felt the blood on his hands and dripping down him. The axe in his left hand was barely recognisable as such, it's blade was so notched and bent that it almost looked like a spiked club.

He dropped the almost worthless weapon in favour of the more reliable sword. Glancing round to take stock of his position, he saw the heavily armoured Slaaneshi Knights dealing out more punishment on the Nurglites than the entire mob of Marauders could have managed in triple the time frame.

Much to his surprise, the Knight's champion was being ignored by the leader of the Nurglites, who seemed more interested in the Norscan Chieftain. The huge man was dwarfed by his armoured opponent, whose enormous girth was even more intimidating at such close quarters.

Where most of his followers had simply wielded oversized weaponry, the leader of the Nurglite Warriors carried a shield as well. The sword in his right hand was still larger than a normal hand weapon. For a normal human it would have been a hand and a half, if not a double hander, but the Nurglite swung it with such speed and power that the Norscan could barely dodge each blow. The shattered pieces of his buckler, and the gash in his arm showed what had happened when he'd tried to block one.

For such an obese being, the Warrior had incredible stamina. It even looked as though the muscular Norscan was tiring first. The Warrior's swings were getting closer and closer. The sound of heavy steps alerted Zaan to a figure approaching behind him. He whirled around with his blade outstretched. He was surprised to find it blocked by the clean, silvery blade of a Knight's sabre biting into it. What had happened to their horse Zaan could only guess, which was as much as he could do about the figure's gender. He had little time to ponder either, as a voice came from within the helmet. It echoed more than he would have expected, but he could understand it's words clearly enough.

"Do you not care whom you strike, Slave to the Daemontongue?"

Zaan's incomprehension must have shown on his face, because the Knight's laughter rang out for a moment until he recalled Liasha's title within the Warband.

"One can never be too careful on the battlefield. Any soldier careless enough to be dispatched by someone facing away from them deserves whatever blade may end their life."

The knight paused for a moment, before striking Zaan across the face with a lightning quick blow. "Truth you may speak, but no slave may use such a tone to me. However favoured they may be." Another bark of laughter as Zaan turned back to face the Knight, his anger clear.

"Save your strength, favoured one. Others desire your attention more urgently than I." The Knight twisted the rusted sword out of Zaan's hand, and tossed him the unmarred blade. "I think you will need this more than I. As much as Lady Azyrash wishes your demise, I feel it would be more amusing to give you something of a chance." The Knight indicated the Nurglite behind Zaan, who dove to his left, rolling onto his back when he hit the floor. It seemed that the same trick would not work against this Warrior. He halted the blade's motion before it sank into the dirt, rounding on Zaan almost as quickly as Zaan rolled sideways, bringing his leg under him and rising to his feet.

He dodged back from the first few blows, almost allowing a pattern to form, but before the Nurglite lost patience and tried a new tactic, Zaan twisted around a diagonal slash, and brought himself inside the giant man's guard. The stench of the monstrous Warrior was almost unbearable and the amount of space Zaan had between gut and sword arc was barely enough to be useful. Gritting his teeth against the contact, he pulled himself round the huge stomach and pushed his opponent's shield arm up with his own body. Almost gagging at the revolting odour of the Warrior's armpit he thrust his borrowed blade into the space between arm and armour. He held onto the shield with his free hand and used it to protect himself while he twisted the curved blade into the Nurglite's rotten organs.

Soon the horrific smell became too much, and Zaan dropped to the floor, taking several swift steps away from his flailing foe. In his desperation, the Nurglite had dropped his huge sword to better remove Zaan. So while the huge Warrior unbuckled the shield from his injured arm, Zaan ran over to take the great blade.

As his hands closed around the blood-slick handle, a surge of strength flowed through him, and he lifted the heavy steel with as much ease as any of the other blades he'd wielded in his adult life. Rounding on the obese monstrosity, whose fear was evident in his posture, Zaan felt a malevolent grin pull at his lips. He charged at the Nurglite, and hacked of his sword arm with a single upward sweep of the massive blade. The second blow bit heavily into the bone of his right leg. Crippling the limb completely.

The Warrior lay prone now, corrupted blood oozing from his three gaping wounds. As little experience as Zaan had with the powers of Chaos, he doubted that such damage would necessarily be enough to end the Warrior. Hefting the sword onto his shoulder, he brought it down with a cry of triumph, severing the bloated creature's head.

As the adrenaline rush of his victory faded, he heard the Knight approach behind him. The Slaaneshi stopped just outside the sword's reach, and his caution brought another smile to Zaan's face. "You owe me a blade, slave."

He turned to the Knight, planting the point of his new weapon in the ground. "Your sword is perfectly intact. More-over, you know where it is. If you don't want it back, then that is hardly my business."

"My blade is ruined, corrupted by the filth of the plague god. I demand you replace it."

Now it was Zaan's turn to laugh. "If you want this sword you are willing to try and take it. Or you can take your case to the sorceress. She seems to enjoy confrontations like that." He turned and walked away, leaving the Knight to regret his over confidence. He felt an overwhelming desire to test his new sword on as many foes as he could find.

_I'll try to upload the next one sooner than later, but I can't make any promises unfortunately. You'll just have to tough it out. [sarcastic irony]_


	12. The Next Step

_Okay, hands in the air, I know it's been a ridiculously long time since I updated, and I'm sorry. The next chapter should be up sooner, and I'm also aware I've been wrong the last few times I've said that. This time I mean it though. I hope..._

The battlefield was already littered with corpses, the stench of spilt blood and ruptured organs mingled with the reek of the already rotting Nurglites and the more subtle, delicate aroma of the Slaaneshi to create a horrific assault on the senses that remained just on the brink of belief, yet denied all comprehension.

Zaan barely registered the already dead however, it mattered little how many of the plague-ridden ones died, nor how many of the perfumed slavers lost their lives. All he cared about was being the one who killed them. He finally had a chance to take revenge for the deaths of his friends in that first battle and to free himself of the Sorceress. He was aware of a subtle force at the back of his mind driving him to kill, but he dismissed it as a primal urge rising to the surface after being suppressed by Liasha's manipulations of his other base instincts.

The thundering of a cavalry charge caught his attention and, turning, he saw a barbarian unit carrying the marks of the plague god bearing down on him. Through his urge to destroy, he maintained his soldier's instincts. A lone warrior could not stand against a cavalry charge, even one on what looked to be sickly ponies. There were seven of the Marauder horsemen and though he could not easily tell whether they were closely related to the Norscans under all their skin abrasions, he doubted their sense of honour was too different. All men had pride. The followers of Chaos certainly had an abundance of it, which Zaan knew was his only real chance at any kind of victory.

Standing his ground, he flourished his over-large sword in the direction of the horseman he assumed to be the champion, and was more than a little relieved when the central Marauder barked an order at his men and they slowed their pace a little, allowing their chieftain to pull ahead. His 'blessings' were many and his muscular torso bore an almost incredible array of diseases and lesions. Half of his chest was covered by three large pus filled tumours in a triangular arrangement; the space between each bore a long thin mark of some kind. The overall appearance of this collection of putrescent symptoms bore a remarkable similarity to the symbol on the ragged banner borne by another of the marauders.

The way the Nurglite Chieftain spurred on his steed, Zaan was amazed that it's bloated sides didn't rupture under each successive impact. Clearly the mules were made of sturdier stuff than he'd imagined. He was tempted to call out at the approaching Marauder, but he resisted, partly in the hope that his silence would disconcert the Chieftain, but mostly to prove to himself that he could still resist his impulses, despite Liasha's efforts.

With the sword at his right side, Zaan subtly shifted his weight to the left in readiness to dive that way and take the mules legs out from under it, bringing his opponent to a more even combat.

Whether out of sheer luck, or by anticipating Zaan's plan, the Marauder veered to the left at the last moment before Zaan struck, and swinging his axe down toward the Brettonian's head. Having started his own attack, Zaan's blade was already moving. Using it's momentum and the strength it's enchantment lent him, he was able to block the axe blade.

The two weapons collided hard, but neither was damaged when they parted. As rusted and ancient as it seemed, the axe in the Chieftain's hand had equal, if not greater strength than Zaan's own weapon. Zaan turned to follow his opponent, and held his blade behind him as though to strike upwards on the left again. With his right arm across his chest as it was, he was limited in the number of possible motions he could make and if the Chieftain changed his attack pattern, he would be left wide open. At least that's what he wanted the Nurglite to think.

Sure enough, the Horseman came on with the same vigour as before, and a smug look on his face, thinking himself to be up against a simpleton.

Anticipating the swerve to the right, Zaan twisted round to his left, reversed the direction of the blade, gripped it with both hands and swung with all his might. The mule's throat was exactly where he'd expected it to be, and the rotten looking skin of it's neck parted like parchment under the strength of his blow. The blade's sorcerously keen edge and the unnatural strength which filled him carried the swing through flesh and bone, right out the other side, cleanly decapitating the animal, before biting deep into the chest of the Chieftain on it's back.

The enchanted steel ended its path half way through the Marauder's ribcage, not only ruining his heart and lungs, but slicing through two of the pustules that made up the mark on his chest. The Marauder's surprise at Zaan's unconventional movements undoubtedly saved the Brettonian's life; or at least his limb. As the adrenaline of the challenge wore away, Zaan felt a terrible pain in his left arm. Not yet daring to look, he tried to ignore it as he edged away from the collapsing corpses of the Horseman and his mount. He forced it from his mind by cleaning the rotten man's bodily fluids off his sword by wiping it on the corpse. He tried to restart the adrenaline flow by fighting the remaining horsemen, but when he turned on them, they shied away from him, their moral apparently broken after losing their champion.

He assumed it was simply the ease with which he'd achieved it, something which even surprised himself, but the fear he could see even through their diseased faces was something different. When he gripped his sword in both hands once more, relieved that his left arm still obeyed him, their fear doubled, and they reigned their horses around to flee.

Finally the numbness of his arm broke through to his mind, and he forced himself to look, knowing that to ignore it any longer would simply be foolish.

The gash in his bicep was as ragged as the frayed ends of his trousers and there were shards of rusted steel showing in the wound, the deepest of which were embedded in the bone. Horrified at his own stupidity, Zaan hurriedly tore the cloth from around his mouth and bound it round his shoulder in as tight a tourniquet as he could manage before gritting his teeth and slowly removing the shards, hopefully before the wound had time to become infected.

The moment he dropped the enchanted sword, it's mystical strength had begun to leave him and he gradually felt the effects of the pain and blood-loss catch up with him. Dreading what he might see when, and more importantly if, he awoke, he stumbled away from the already putrefying corpse of his erstwhile opponent and collapsed to the ground.

*

Zaan's first thought upon waking was relief; his mind had been tormented by nightmares; images of corruption, mutation, and worse. Such dreams had become common since his capture and subjugation by the Slaaneshi but as his experiences with the followers of Chaos grew, so did the breadth of degradation his subconscious mind created in his sleep.

His attempts to convince himself it was only the effect of the brand scarring his face were less comforting than he had hoped and when he saw Liasha kneeling over him, her legs either side of his chest, dressed in her customary extravagant robe, open and loose as ever, he felt even worse, especially as she settled down to rest her hips on his, drawing his attention inescapably to the fact she had removed what little clothing he had been wearing. That his body accepted it with such ease made him all the more uncomfortable. Liasha giggled; at what he couldn't be sure, but it unnerved him how innocent she managed to look, in spite of her position.

"I'm glad you're awake." Her lilting voice held a tone that rang true with her words. So compassionate that Zaan couldn't help feeling that she wasn't finished, and after a moment's pause, the sorceress continued, her voice now tinged by her true sadistic nature. "I'd have hated for you to miss this."

She clicked her fingers and the binding spell she'd placed on her slave's arm dissipated, releasing the pain of his injury to flash through him. The surface pain of his torn flesh underpinned by a deep burning of the remaining shards.

"You should've been more careful"

He would have responded, but he wasn't sure whether he would have been able to force the words from his lungs through the pain. It took almost more willpower than he had not to give Liasha the satisfaction of expressing his pain more than he already had when the agony had flooded into his mind.

She frowned at his resistance; "Silly little slave. If you don't accept the pain it's just going to cripple you. Then you'll be no fun. I think you can guess what happens to toys that bore me can't you." She had leant down onto him now, so that her face was almost resting on his. Her eyes held such a gleefully sadistic look that the heir of Parravon felt a greater terror of her than he ever had for any foe. At that moment, he would rather have faced a dragon while armed with less than a peasant farmer could manage than endure her gaze for much longer.

She suddenly straightened up and drew a viciously curved dagger from beside her shin, and sliced it across her right palm as she brought herself down onto Zaan, joining them at the hips before clasping her bleeding hand around the wound in his bicep.

The simultaneous shock of pleasure and pain brought a scream from the young slave's lungs. When she began to shudder against him, pouring her magic through his body, the convulsions intensified both sensations until they peaked at a level beyond anything he had ever experienced, even at Liasha's hands. After an almost mind-shattering pulse, the pain began to recede. Now each pulse of magic seemed to turn another level or pain into an even greater height of ecstasy.

Finally the physical and mystical stimulation reached a point his mind could no longer cope with, and he remembered nothing further until his consciousness surfaced and he found himself slumped, exhausted, on top of Liasha.

His shock at this caused him to jerk away from her. She looked at him with a twinge of disappointment, "Oh, you're sentient again already?" she gave a surprisingly heartfelt sigh, "I was quite enjoying myself with the animalistic side of you. It's been a while since I had a slave so forceful." Her face broke into a self-satisfied smirk.

"No..." In spite of the evidence before his eyes, Zaan tried to convince himself she was only manipulating him again. No matter how he denied it though, even his own body presented proof of her claims.

"Oh, very much yes. With my blood in you, what did you expect?"

She broke into peals of genuine laughter as the shock of realisation dawned in her slave's eyes, and he knew that now he was undeniably her slave. Even with her brand marring his face, and her supernatural allure woven around him he had been able to deny it; but her blood was in him now and he dreaded to think what kind of control that could give a sorceress of her power.

He was still sinking into despair when his mistress gripped his throat, and flipped him onto his back. She climbed swiftly over him, pinning his left wrist with her right knee, and his right with her left foot, keeping both his arms stretched away from his body. Her actions, which he barely had time to register, let alone the energy to oppose, drew his attention to the almost normal feeling in his wounded arm. Like his punctured shoulder, he could feel where the wound was, but it no longer pained him to any great extent.

Liasha paused in her unconventional position; looking, despite her lack of any covering, much more dangerous than alluring. "Now that you're awake enough to feel again, it's time to finish the ritual. Unleashing the real you was fun, but I think I need to take a precaution before I do it again. You did try to kill me several times after all."

A glimmer of hope shone into Zaan's mind at her words, and a memory flashed to the surface; _He is on his knees, leaning backwards, with Liasha's back resting on his chest. Her knife in his hand, he feels her tense against him as the blade penetrates her chest, right under her heart._

The moment of relief at the memory of his resistance against her magic fled when he realised that even such a clean, fatal blow had failed to end her. "How... Why are you still alive?"

"It was my knife you silly boy. Now, hold still."

His confusion at her words almost distracted him completely from the knife in her hands. The same knife which he had plunged into her breast and which had failed to leave a mark. The blade was still slick with her blood, which she lost little time combining with her essence. She raised the dripping blade above his arm, and he felt the mixed fluids splash onto him, just above the gouge in his flesh.

His mind was still groggy from her magic and he could barely comprehend her actions until she thrust the sorcerous dagger into and through the bone. With a word of power, a flash of energy rent the flesh along the edges of the blade, neatly severing his arm.


	13. Silver and Siren Song

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Hey there all you fans of my twisted little mental realms. I've managed to stop this chapter squirming around long enough to pin it into a fixed typed format. OK I was the one doing most of the distraction-based squirming and I wish I could focus better on this story (or any of them for that matter) but I haven't managed it so far and making any promises about it will just bite me in the arse further down the line. So read it and I hope you appreciate it (I kind of hope you don't enjoy it too much but you'll find out why as you read it) Either way, let the corruption recommence!

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The pain was extreme but barely lasted an instant. Zaan had hardly drawn breath to scream before the sharp piercing agony faded to a dulled burning sensation and a terrifying sense of emptiness beyond. Part of the terror came from the incompleteness of the feeling; were he not so certain of the truth, he might have believed his body to be still intact.

Liasha locked her lips to his with an unusual urgency, pressing herself onto him as if trying to meld her flesh to his and share his pain and fear. Though his head was still spinning from the rush of sensations, he was still lucid enough to wonder if it was Liasha's contact with him that was dulling his pain; some magical influence was undoubtedly at work, whatever it's true effect.

Disregarding any thoughts of the consequences, Zaan raised his remaining hand to Liasha's silken hair and clenched his fist at the base of her neck. He felt her lips curl into a satisfied smile and, with all the vindictive strength he could summon, he wrenched her sideways and away from him, bringing her head down as hard as he could. He rolled away to his left, but as soon as he fully broke contact with the sorceress, the spell was broken and he regained all the intensity of pain that the magic had drained from him. His arm felt freshly severed and his entire body throbbed with a hollow aching from the magic's sudden absence.

Only his growing tolerance for pain kept him conscious and with all his will, he forced himself to move; turning back toward Liasha to catch a glimpse of her expression. After every moment of being shamed by her and each failed attempt at defiance, to finally see a crack in a composure that had remained perfect even while he drove a dagger into her chest brought him more satisfaction than any true victory he could remember. Seeing her sprawled on the floor, dishevelled hair falling across her face reminded him of how she'd looked with Slaa'Khar's fist around her throat. The fury in her eyes caught his gaze and he couldn't look away. Fear stole through his mind and he suddenly doubted that the moment of satisfaction was worth her retaliation.

Her mouth opened wide as she gave voice to her anger, her normally melodious voice shuddering between different pitches in a discordant cacophony. Her wordless scream was accompanied by a torrent of silver flames; a shimmering conflagration which dazzled him with its brilliance before engulfing his body with a feeling like ten thousand daggers piercing every inch of his flesh.

As the shining blaze sank through his skin and the raw open wounds he bore, the blades of agony burned for a moment before fading and taking every iota of sensation with them. His muscles tensed to their limits as the magic flowed in towards his bones. His other senses were left intact, but even his eyes were locked straight ahead staring strait up at the ceiling of Liasha's tent as he lay flat on his back. Within seconds his consciousness was isolated within his mind, unable to even feel his body, let alone move it.

A panic like no fear he'd even felt before surged up inside him and infused every thought with terror at his sudden paralysis and the utterly vulnerable situation it left him in. However strong his will may have been, it was as nothing against Liasha's magic. Even his most urgent and desperate demands of his body produced no response.

His panic stretched out the time he spent lying stiff and numb; it felt like hours before he heard Liasha's footsteps and saw her standing above him. She knelt down to bring her face close to his, filling his entire vision with her beautifully and terribly calm visage. The anger which Zaan had thought all consuming had been discarded as easily as a mask as she regained control over her favourite toy.

"Naughty boy!" She chided him as though he were a child, her tone playful and melodic once more. "You are my possession, I thought you understood that. I shall do with you whatever I wish because you belong to me. Mind..." Her face drew closer, her pale hair cascading around him and shading her face from most of the candlelight, leaving only her eyes and mouth easily distinguishable. He watched as her tongue licked out and pressed itself against the bridge of his nose and slid up to his forehead.

She raised her head away from him and moved herself slightly "Body..." A shudder passed up her as she jerked herself down with a soft grunt. She paused a moment, pulling Zaan's head forwards by his hair so he could watch her using him for her own pleasure. When she released him to claw at her own chest, his head thudded to the floor again. Seconds later, she drew him up again, this time his entire torso moved as she pulled his face to hers. She held him still with one hand on each cheek and gazed into his eyes, the same silver flames that had robbed him of sensation flickering in her pupils. "And soul." With her burning gaze filling his vision and triggering all his memories of her power, for the first time, he found it hard to deny her. Her certainty that she spoke the truth and the strength of her belief crushed what little idea of freedom that remained in Zaan's mind, at least for a time.

"It's a shame really, I wanted you here for this." Before he had time to consider the implication of her words, she began to sing. Her song had no words, but its lilting melody called down to the depths of his mind and seared across his every thought and memory. The fires in her eyes danced to her music and as the tune filled him, the shimmering silver tongues grew to cover every part of his vision and burned down to dance inside his head until the music and the fire had utterly drowned out his consciousness.

With no sense to count with, Zaan had no way of knowing how long Liasha's mystical flame and siren song kept him entranced, and when they finally faded, leaving all his senses returned he for once counted himself lucky. Not only for his release, but that it was a gradual one. Had Liasha broken her spells in an instant, he couldn't be certain his sanity would have remained.

He couldn't help hoping that his memories of the chaos camp were a dream, as he'd done many times before. His hope was greater now because what he felt and what he thought he knew were at odds. Rather than the emptiness he knew he should feel, or the ghostly half-sense he remembered, his left arm felt whole and strong, not quite the same as the right, but it was undeniably there. What little light there was he tried to use to examine his surroundings in an attempt to delay the moment when he would have to look at his arm to learn the truth.

Though robbed of colour by the darkness, he recognised the patterns of the many draped cloths hanging around him as being Liasha's possessions. Even if he had wished hanging cloths in his own chambers there would not be nearly so many, nor would they be so extravagant or vulgar in their subject matter.

With a great feeling of trepidation, he raised his left hand to his face while propping himself on his other elbow. Even in the darkness he could see what Liasha had done and he couldn't keep himself from crying out in shock. Even in the near pitch darkness, there was a gleam to it. He flexed his fingers and wrist and the joints flowed with an impossibly natural movement. No armoured joint moved with such smoothness, but neither should one move at all with no flesh beneath it.

He dropped to his back, unwilling to spend too long dwelling on such a disconcerting contradiction as he felt when he saw the impossible limb he now carried.

Lying on the fur-covered floor, staring silently at the soft cloth above him, trying not to think of anything for fear of what he might begin to contemplate, he focused his hearing to listen outside the tent. Trying to identify the sounds he heard kept his mind occupied. The systematic categorisation and dismissal of each sound lead him to initially ignore the signs of another person cautiously entering. The footsteps were soft and slow, the breathing deep and steady. Had he not been so focused on the sounds around him he doubted he would have noticed. Gradually, as the soft tread grew closer, he brought it to the front of his mind and tried to drown out everything else to determine whether it was a threat. Or at least, a threat to him. Considering what he had so far experienced of the Slaaneshi, the chance of a third party entering Liasha's tent so silently for entirely innocent reasons was so remote as to be ludicrous.

The footsteps paused by his head and he imagined a shadowy figure gazing down at him, raising a blade ready to strike, but their feet remained still until they began to move away once more. Content that if anyone was to die from this infiltration it would be either the infiltrator or Liasha, he resolved to give it no more thought unless it became important again.

After only the second step away from him, his left arm lashed out and closed its metallic grip around the sneaker's ankle with an audible crack. The unseen figure crashed to the ground with an agonised scream which revealed her gender. Ignoring momentarily that he hadn't intended anything, he pulled himself over to the unknown woman and pinned her to the ground, his shins pressing her knees to the floor and his right hand next to her head to support him.

Lights flickered on around them and Zaan glanced to the sorceress' bed to see her reclining gently and gazing at him with interest. She didn't say a word and after a moment he looked back down at the girl and what he saw horrified him.

Even under the tear stains and the scars she was undoubtedly several years his junior, and were she unharmed and her head not forcibly, incautiously shaved, she would have been pretty enough to rival any of the courtly ladies of Parravon. It hardly surprised him; few of the slaves he'd seen were even plain-looking under the signs of their enslavement.

The sorrow he felt at having caused such a pathetically tormented slave even more pain redoubled as he heard and felt each of the next three bone-crushing, flesh-tearing blows. His left hand pounded into her spine, ribs and left shoulder once each in quick succession before he even tried to stop it. It shattered her pelvis after he pulled himself away, however hard he tried to hold it back with his right hand. He finally stopped it from systematically pulverising every bone in the screaming girl's body by throwing himself on top of it and trying to pin it to the floor.

His sense of the limb had diminished somewhat as it's intentions clashed with his, but when it twisted beneath him to an impossible angle and pushed him back up, pressing it's elbow into his gut, he still felt the phantom strains of his muscles and tendons stretching to accommodate the unnatural positioning. He straightened up to stop himself falling flat on his face, keeping the arm as far from the girl as possible. He could hear her pained sobbing with terrible clarity, knowing that every laboured breath through the ribs that he had shattered brought her ever closer to death. The thought of it sickened him, the sound of his metal fist thudding into her flesh repeatedly remained clear in his mind and the fact he couldn't stop it scared him more than anything his enforced servitude to Liasha had so far shown him.

With the disconnection he felt with the limb, it took him too long to interpret it's motions before the jagged edges of the gauntlet-fist swung into his own face, impacting straight into his left cheek bone at the centre of Liasha's brand. The blow was limited by the distance and the angles of the arm's joints, but the force it managed was enough to snap Zaan's head around and knock him off balance. He staggered and tripped on the slave-girl's demolished ankle, only barely avoiding falling headlong onto her through pure luck.

Dazed from the punch and the impact of hitting the floor, Zaan's sense of his own flesh and blood limbs was uncertain. Lying on his front, a vague tightness in his left shoulder, he pushed himself onto his knees and shook his head to clear his vision, wincing at the sharp shock of pain lingering in his left cheek. The pain of it focused his mind again and he heard a thud behind him. The empty space around him and the full he'd regained over Liasha's 'gift' to him was enough of an explanation as he needed, but he turned anyway. Forcing himself to experience the disgust he always felt at such brutal sights was one of the few ways he could keep himself from slipping towards the darkness.

The marks of her enslavement were almost hidden on some parts of the girl's corpse. The scars within the wide bruises of her internal injuries were almost invisible, though those were mostly on her back. Her pose as she lay slumped on her side was unnatural; Her hips and knees were pointed away from him, but her spine had twisted almost completely around to reveal her face, bloodied and broken, and her naked chest, where a familiar brand had been burned into her again and again. A brand that brought rage and despair in equal measure each time he saw his reflection.

Liasha's melodious laugh rang out behind him. "That was wonderfully amusing, my little champion, but if you're going to treat all my other toys like that, then I'll not have any left before too long will I?"

Zaan turned slowly back to her, his face a mix of self-loathing and, even now, horror at her casual attitude. His expression seemed to please her and she beckoned him closer; magical tendrils compelling him to move before his own resignation had time. She clasped her thighs around his left hand in a swift movement, while in the same seconds, she stroked his left cheek almost tenderly to heal the damage to his bone.

Once more Zaan lost the more detailed sensations of his left arm as it again defied his will and bent to the desires it clearly shared with Liasha, who moaned softly before laughing again at his self-disgust.

"Oh, my sweet little thing." She forced his lips against hers briefly but harshly. "You get so cute when you're afraid of yourself."

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_Well, there we go for another chapter. You might be able to enjoy it more than I did writing it, but I had to get into Zaan's mind a bit, so I started to hate what was happening, let me know if it was actually as brutal as I thought._


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